


Dangerous Games

by damtoti



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Drug-Induced Sex, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, Itacest, M/M, Multi, Non-penetrative Incest, Unconscious Sex, Voyeurism, dark!italy - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-01-19 14:20:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1472932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damtoti/pseuds/damtoti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Veneziano enjoys seeing his brother getting bottomed, <i>hard</i>, and his unusual kink cultivates into something darker and more obsessive as he purposefully sets out to guide Romano into sexual situations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta work done by **Sara Generis**.
> 
> Contains multiple pairings (mainly with Romano) and side Germany/Italy throughout the story. Pairings will be added as they appear. Dark porn with plot.  
> From the kink meme, but in the process of being rewritten
> 
>  
> 
> **Note: I've gone back and deleted all the unedited chapters of this story, which unfortunately removed all comments from those chapters as well. I assumed I'd be able to rewrite the story soon enough, but that clearly did not work out, so I apologize to any old readers who may have come back to find more than half the story gone.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1 - Updated

Veneziano refilled the shot glass and pushed it to his brother. “Come on, one more,” he coaxed, shaking his brother’s shoulder until he earned an irritated groan. "I know you can do it! You’re so close to beating your record!"

“C-Course I can! I just…just don’t _want_ to!”

“But why not? You’re so close to beating your record, right? Are you going to let me win?”

Romano pushed himself upright to frown at the glass. By this point, his wariness had degraded into only a foggy sense of hesitancy, and if he had noticed Veneziano’s untouched glass he had yet to make a complaint. His face scrunched in thought, and then he grunted disagreeably. “Beat it a while ago. Around the tequila—sometime then.”

Veneziano couldn’t help but find the surly edge to his brother’s voice even more arousing with drunken slur. He laughed and clapped a hand over his brother’s back, allowing the touch to linger. “Silly Romano, you’re forgetting everything! We’ve only been here for an hour, remember? You’ve still got a couple more to go!”

“But ‘m tired…and my stomach hurts!”

“Come on! You’re going to lose to your baby brother!”

Romano snorted, but when the glass was pressed into his fingers he grudgingly raised it to his lips. Despite his sharp tongue, he never was good at standing up for himself.

Veneziano waited for the bob of his throat, and then pried the empty glass from his hand. "Great job! Just a couple more!” he cheered, patting his back. Romano slumped over with a groan, resorting to using the countertop as a makeshift pillow. He muttered an unintelligible series of curses as Veneziano waved the bartender over for another bottle.

Their collection of empty liquor bottles had been individually collected by the bartender, who, although baffled by their inhuman tolerance, chose not to question the bar’s profit. After all, they weren’t the only nations who had stumbled upon the same dingy bar after the meeting.

England, sitting in a corner booth with France, was in no better shape than Romano. For the past half hour he had used nearly every historical event—both real and fabricated—as a means to berate his companion, which in turn encouraged France to drink even more, and finally they had both gone silent with bleak memories alive in their minds.

Picking up on the mood, Prussia and Spain, in addition to many of the human patrons, had left the sedentary location in search a more lively party. The few humans that remained consisted of middle-aged men so deeply engrossed in studying cracks in the countertop they paid no attention to the two young and incongruously stylish brothers sitting at the front.

As Veneziano reached for the bottle, his brother’s arm fell heavily over his shoulder. “Hey…” Romano tugged at his sleeve, the fingers not quite able to maintain their grip. “You’ve been asking me to go…to go drinking a lot. The hell’s up with that? What’s your secret plot, huh?”

“Plot?” Veneziano giggled. “Don’t be silly! I invited you because I love spending time with my big brother! I don’t get to see you enough.”

“You’re a dumbass if ya…ya think I buy that shit. You’re always with that potato anyway. Stupid, muscular bastard!” Romano spat. He turned his face away, trying and failing to conceal his quivering lip.

Sometimes, it was so, so easy…

“Oh, Romano!” Veneziano cried, throwing an arm over his brother’s shoulder and yanking him into a hug—a simple, caring gesture. “How can you say that? Germany’s not my brother—you are! You’re _part_ of me! You know I love you, right?”

He giggled. Romano’s face flushed a deep red as he sputtered incoherently, and then, reverting to his instinctive response, he smacked his arm. “Let me go, you s-stupid, sentimental bastard!”

Veneziano relented, only to slide a refilled glass toward Romano’s hand. “Okay! Here you go, one more!”

“D-Dumbass…”

“I know you can do it! You’re my amazing big brother!”

Simple flattery could melt him like butter, and as predicted, Romano swallowed the glass with only a grimace; though as this point the taste may as well have been water going down his throat. Once he pushed the glass away, Romano slumped back over the counter, dropping his hand under his arms. “M’ head’s spinning… Can we go home now?”

Veneziano hummed in thought. Lips quirking, he tugged his brother’s arm. “Let me see your eyes.” It was a strange request, but Romano complied and turned his face over with only a tiny whine. Veneziano cupped his chin in both hands and tilted his face for a better examination. Romano always had pretty eyes, prettier than his, Veneziano thought, but under the dim light they appeared only a murky, swamp-like brown, sheathed in a watery glaze.

Romano sniffled and drew back, impatient. “Bastard, are you listening? I wanna go home!”

“Don’t worry, we will. Can you stand up?”

Romano shook his head, and even that simple motion lacked coordination. “I can’t…can’t feel my legs.”

Veneziano hummed, his eyes flickering to the back of the room. “That’s too bad. Why don’t you lean on me, okay?”

“D-Don’t wanna, dammit.” Romano attempted to pull himself up, but could only manage to slump drunkenly against Veneziano.

Veneziano drew his arms around Romano, supporting him, but for the time being he was also thrillingly aware of Romano’s breath hot against his neck, the warmth of his skin radiating through the thin fabric of his expensive shirt, and the distinct, spiced scent to his hair—almost foreign, reminding Veneziano just how far apart the two of them had been raised.

And to think, without such distinct cultural origins, the almost tangible boundary between north and south, there may not have been _two_ Italies sitting here today.

Veneziano leaned down and brushed his lips against Romano’s head, a kiss too soft for the other to perceive. “Come on, you’re too drunk right now, see? Let me help you stand up. We can go back to the hotel that way.”

Romano sighed, deflating, and released a faint sound of agreement, allowing Veneziano to slide his arm around his shoulders. He pulled Romano into a sitting position, and at his signal, the bartender arrived with the check.

The man cast a worried glance at Romano as he accepted the due payment, forgetting to properly count the notes he had been handed. “Your friend looks pretty trashed. Is he gonna be okay?”

Romano scowled at him, and he flinched, taken aback.

“I’m sure he’ll be fine!” Veneziano said, pulling Romano’s arm over his shoulders and hoisting him up by the armpits. “Once we get home, and he gets taken care of, you know?”

“Well, okay, but if he wants a glass of water—”

The bartender didn’t get a chance to finish. Veneziano stumbled under Romano’s weight and the two of them nearly toppled backward over the counter, Veneziano just barely catching himself with one arm.

The man flinched.

“Whoa,” Veneziano laughed.

Romano was clinging onto him in a koala-like hug to avoid sliding onto the floor, and hissed through his teeth. “You said you’d help me…”

“I’m sorry, you’re heavy!”

The bartender shook his head. “He’s definitely not going to be able to walk on his own. I’ll call you two a cab, okay?” He paused for a moment, contemplating the distance to the door. “And once I’m done putting these away, I’ll help with carrying your friend.”

Veneziano beamed. The man—only about nineteen, really—had an unusually serious disposition for someone so young and in such a line of work (after all, shouldn’t he be fed up with drunks and their shenanigans?) and Veneziano was instantly charmed. “Don’t worry about it! My friend is sitting right over there! See?” He gestured toward France, who was leaning his head on one arm as he stared impassively at his passed-out companion. “We’re going to the same hotel, anyway. It’ll be okay!”

The bartender’s eyes swept over France’s pristine suit and then their own attire. “Business partners?” he ventured.

“Something like that!” Veneziano slid his arm to support Romano as he eased himself upright, using his free arm to wave erratically. “Francis! Hey, Francis! Can you come over here for a minute?”

Upon hearing him, France glanced up, and his face split into his characteristically charming, but tipsy, grin. His eyes flickered left to Romano’s limp body pressed misleadingly against Veneziano’s, their cheeks nuzzling, and a slight gleam passed through his eyes.

After all, he was _France_.

“I don’t _like_ France,” Romano grumbled, burying his face deeper into Veneziano’s shoulder.

“Aw, you’re just being cranky! He’s only going to walk you to the car. You don’t even have to talk to him.”

France glided into the stool beside them, chuckling softly. “Our feisty Italian has had a little too much to drink?” His mannerisms were elegant, as always, but he fumbled as he patted Romano’s shoulder. Romano growled.

“Yup! It’s about time we return to the hotel, but I can’t carry him myself,” Veneziano said. “Do you think you can help?”

“Hmm…” France glanced over his shoulder at England, still snoring softly over the table. “Of course, I suppose I can spare a few minutes. I don't think England is waking up anytime soon.”

“Thanks, France! You’re the best!” Veneziano beamed, and in his excitement his hand dropped down Romano’s back, far down, and he didn’t miss France’s eyes following the movement. Everything was falling into place so perfectly—like a theatrical performance!

Romano began to protest as France eased one of his arms around his shoulders. Immediately, France broke to a halt, whispering soothing French words that bore a tenderness unexpected from his teasing lips. Curiously enough, they seemed to have some effect, as Romano’s mouth clamped into a tense line but he didn’t argue about France pressing up beside him.

“There, there….” France murmured, pressing his lips chastely against Romano’s forehead. “You needn’t worry; my hands will behave tonight.” There was only a tired grunt from Romano, so he turned to Veneziano with a wink. “Quite a shame, really.”

Veneziano felt an anticipating thrill flutter through his stomach, but he cocked his head to one side with a puzzled, “Ve?”

Taking one look at him, France burst into laughter and shook his head. “No, I am only teasing, Italy.”

“Oh…” Veneziano said, mimicking France’s grin. “I see! Well, we should probably hurry now. Romano isn’t looking too happy.”

“Of course,” France agreed, scooting to the edge of his stool. “You hold him around the waist and I’ll lead the steps.”

Veneziano nodded, and with a grunt, Romano was pulled to his feet, his weight supported between each of them. His head lolled forward with the movement and he gave a low groan. “I dun’ feel good…”

“That’s why we’re going home now, Romano. Can you step forward?” France asked.

Romano shook his head, eyes pinched shut. “Can’t feel my…my feet. F-Fuck…they’re spinning.”

France looked at Romano’s face with concern, and then sighed. He gently brushed Veneziano’s arm aside. “It’s fine, Italy. I’ll manage him.” Before either of them had a chance to ask what he meant, he transferred his free arm to Romano’s waist, and hoisted his legs off the ground. Romano’s flailing limbs settled into France’s awkward bridal hold. Veneziano had to bite back his laugh at how delicately France held him, like a wounded animal that would turn any minute and bite its rescuer.

“ _Bastard_ …” Romano frowned, as if contemplating if it was worth the energy to fight to get loose. Deciding it wasn’t, he huffed and let his head fall slack against France’s chest, frowning furiously.

Releasing the breath he had been holding, France shifted Romano’s limbs into a more comfortable arrangement, fingers only centimeters from an unimpeded grope. It should have been _so easy_ , and yet he refused to take the bait. “It should be a bit easier this way. Can you lead the way?”

When they exited, their cab was already waiting outside, the driver looking displeased as he rested his arm outside the window and waited for them to approach. Veneziano smiled apologetically, first opening the back door for France, and then stepping up to the driver’s window.

“Hello!” he chirped, pulling out his wallet. The man rolled his eyes. “I would like to pay upfront, if that’s okay?”

The driver began to say something about charging by the distance, but went silent upon seeing the number of bills in Veneziano’s raised hand. After a second, his rough features broke into a grin. “Sure thing. Where to, kid?”

Veneziano smiled. It was amusing how young people treated him despite being only fractionally shorter than the other nations, and taller than his older brother. It was understandable coming from humans, but when nations **—** even Germany **—** were convinced of his incompetence, it could become exasperating.

Without his smile faltering, he recited the address to the driver.

France, meanwhile, had managed to pry Romano’s arms from around his neck and was currently trying to ease him into the vehicle. Veneziano hurried back to help him; he shifted Romano into the middle seat, properly arranging his limbs into a comfortable position—feet pointing straight ahead, legs slightly spread, hands on his lap.

Once Veneziano stepped back, satisfied, France leaned in to give Romano a little pat on the head. “Good night, dear,” he whispered, as Romano’s head slumped onto one shoulder. With a wan smile, he joined Veneziano on the curb. “Well, I suppose he’s taken care of now. I wish you both a good night’s rest, and if you’ll now excuse me, I have another cute nation to look after. ”

“W-Wait—!” Veneziano caught hold of his arm before he could leave. “How about you join us? You shouldn’t stay up too late. We have another meeting tomorrow!”

“Ah—No… It’s not necessary. We all know how furious England will be if he wakes up abandoned in a bar a second time. I’ll wait for him to awaken, and then call our own taxi.”

Veneziano tightened his grip, his eyes dropping worriedly to the pavement. “What… What if Romano gets sick and throws up on the way? What if he can’t make his way to his room, and I can’t carry him there on my own?”

France pursed his lips. “That’s true,” he conceded.

“And you don’t have to leave England! We could drop Romano off at his room, and then catch another cab to get back to the bar before England wakes up. That way I can help you bring England back—we could probably carry him together—and you won’t have to wait forever to get home!”

France hummed in consideration. “You’re right, it normally takes a siren to rouse dear England after a night of drinking.”

“Exactly!” Veneziano grabbed hold of France’s hands. “Come with us! _Please_ , France!”

“ _But_ …” France cast a glance at the bar behind them. “It doesn’t sit right with me to leave him alone. Give me a moment to check on him, just in case he has woken up already.”

Hesitantly, Veneziano loosened his grip, allowing France to pull back and return to the bar. Through experience with Germany, he knew begging and pleading could also overwhelm the other person and make their refusal all the more certain.

France was neither his last nor singular option, and if this night failed there were many more to come; but still, Veneziano couldn’t help but quiver with impatience, fidgeting as he felt the driver’s eyes on his back, the light drumming of the man’s fingers audible over the sound of distant laughter and traffic. England had a low tolerance for alcohol, certainly, but France had consumed his share, and between the two of them, neither was as hopelessly drunk as Romano.

Only when Veneziano felt like he was going to burst did France exit the bar, shaking his head with a wan smile. “I tried, but a lawnmower could not rouse England in this state. I suppose I can help escort Romano to his room, and I should be back before England has a chance to notice my disappearance.”

The breath Veneziano had been holding whooshed out of him in a delighted laugh, and he clapped his hands. “Thanks so much, France!”

He held the door open for France to slip in, and then moved to the other side to get into his own seat. Romano was already dozing by the time the vehicle began moving, and may have otherwise been displeased to find himself sandwiched between France and Veneziano.

The inside of the vehicle was cramped, the space cut in half by a glass partition separating the passenger section from the driver. One of the benefits of the privacy was that the driver was unaware that every time he veered around a sharp bend, he caused his passengers to jolt from one side or the other.

The first time it occurred, Romano was shaken awake as he tumbled into Veneziano’s shoulder. Veneziano giggled. It was as if Romano’s body had turned to jelly, and he could only lie there, cursing at being awoken, until Veneziano pushed him upright and correctly repositioned his limbs in the drooping arrangement of a ragdoll on a shelf—legs apart and arms clasped together on his lap. France offered his own chuckle of sympathy.

The next time, the driver’s muffled swear came through the glass, and then he veered to the side to pass another car. Romano lurched with the vehicle and tumbled over France, his head dropping on France’s shoulder and his hand falling unceremoniously over France’s thigh. Romano gave a soft grunt, grappling at France’s pants for leverage.

With a tight-lipped smile, France removed Romano’s arm from his lap and pushed him back upright. “We were unfortunate to end up with such a driver,” France said under his breath.

Veneziano shook his head, exasperated. Although everything _should_ have been happening as he wanted, France, for some unfathomable reason, simply _refused_ to cooperate. Veneziano would have expected him to be less inhibited by grounds of consent, but presumably, his raunchy behavior in meetings was just horseplay, teasing rather than actual depravity.

Such a shame.

It was much more exciting to sit back and watch things roll into place on their own, but if it was necessary, Veneziano could afford to give France a nudge in the right direction.

He leaned over and adjusted Romano’s position so that his body lay slumped against France’s shoulder. “Oh well, I suppose anyone would be like that if they had to work this late at night.” He met France’s questioning gaze with a smile. “Can you hold him? He’s going to get carsick if he keeps bouncing around like that.”

If anything, it should have been Veneziano supporting his brother, but if France found anything odd with the suggestion, he didn’t voice his concern. He did, however, hesitate before slipping his arm around Romano’s shoulders and pulling him close, perhaps expecting one of Romano’s usual headbutts.

Romano’s brow furrowed as he struggled to comprehend what was happening. “Nghh…”

“Hush, it’s alright, Romano,” Veneziano whispered. He brushed a few strands of hair from his face, petting his head with the tenderness of a mother cat to a kitten. “We’ll take care of you. Just close your eyes.”

A low chuckle rumbled in France’s throat as he watched the interaction before him. “How sweet. You’ve grown to be so mature. At times it’s easy to forget who here is the older brother. ”

“Romano is a good brother,” Veneziano said quickly.

“Ah—Of course, Italy! I didn’t mean Romano _isn’t_ —”

“He actually tries very hard to be responsible and take care of me, and there are many great things about him. Don’t you agree?”

“Yes, it wasn’t my intention to offend—!”

“And he’s beautiful. Don’t you think Romano is beautiful, France?”

“Of course!” France insisted. “Who could deny that? Contrary to what you may think, I always was very fond of dear Romano—even as the stubborn and unpredictable child he was, living under Spain’s rule. If Spain had offered him to me, I would have accepted him in a heartbeat.”

Veneziano raised his eyebrows. “Is he an object to you?”

“No—No!” France tugged Romano close to his chest, as if to prove his sincerity. “That’s not at all what I was implying! Please, had he been mine to raise, I would have genuinely offered the best for him.”

“…Oh.” Veneziano rested his chin in his palm as if actually giving consideration to France’s silly exclamation. “In that case, how would you have taken care of him, say…” he leaned in with a cryptic smile, and fought the urge to burst into giggles “…he had come to you in need of love?”

A light frown graced France’s features as he tried to unwrap the meaning of Veneziano’s words. “I… I wouldn’t allow him to walk away without complete assurance of my adoration,” he decided.

“And if he was at that special age? The age where we all grow curious to know what it _really_ means to love another person. Would you have _educated_ him the same as you did with me?”

“I—I—that was—” France sputtered. “No, absolutely not! You have to understand, Italy, I was different then. We all were! But I would never dare lay a finger on a child that looks to me for protection!”

“So you would deny a child in need of love?” Veneziano sighed and glanced up at the roof. “Aw, France. That was a pretty lame answer. Even Spain has done better than you.”

“S-Spain?” France echoed.

Veneziano nodded, gaze dropping to the motionless body before him. Romano had either returned to sleep, or had been too fatigued to follow along with their conversation. Experimentally, Veneziano slipped his hand over his brother’s thigh. France followed the movement with his pale eyes, throat bobbing as he swallowed. With the same gentleness as before, Veneziano rubbed lazy circles up and down his brother’s inner thigh, and then turned to France with a sly grin. “Hey, France… Do you think I’m a good little brother?”

France swallowed thickly “…I’m certain you care for Romano.”

“Yeah…” Veneziano dragged a hand up Romano’s thigh, eyelids fluttering, sighing softly. France’s hand twitched by his side in speculative mimicry, his resistance as amusing to Veneziano as it was frustrating. “And sometimes, with stubborn and silly people like my brother, you have to do what you know is best for them.”

He reached to the side and wrapped his fingers around France’s hand, giving it a squeeze when the other stiffened. “It’s okay… See?” Carefully, he tugged his hand toward him, guiding it up Romano’s leg. “Mmm…. Doesn’t that feel nice?”

Romano stirred, the garbled he made a weak protest.

France nodded, his lips parted. “This… This isn’t right…”

“What do you mean? Don’t you think Romano likes it?” Veneziano shifted his free hand to Romano’s head. He carded through the strands until he found what he was looking for; at once, Romano shuddered, lips parted in an inaudible gasp.

“Ah!” Veneziano continued, giving the curl a light tug, “And if you think he’s beautiful _now_ , you should see him in bed… writhing under you, twisting and moaning…”

“Italy, we—we shouldn’t…”

“Have you seen him like that, France? He’s really beautiful then. The tears running down his cheeks in pleasure he won’t admit he likes. Ah, and the noises he makes…” He twirled Romano’s curl between his fingers, drawing out a soft moan.

“Please, Italy! I doubt **—** ”

“Doubt what, France?” Veneziano chirped, pressing his nails into France’s arm. “Right now _I_ doubt what you said about taking care of Romano. Don’t you think he needs love—craves it? You’re being cruel by holding it back from him!”

France’s mouth fluttered open and closed like a deflating balloon. “No, I don’t mean to hurt him. I just don’t think this is the right time to—”

“Are you telling me he isn’t good enough? Spain accepted him!” Veneziano took the opportunity to slide France’s hand upward, grazing fingers daringly between Romano’s thighs.

“I…” France swallowed again, and tentatively pried his hand from Veneziano’s grip. His fingers hesitated along the seam of his pants, and then, having made up their mind, slipped under Romano’s shirt.

Veneziano nodded his approval. “This isn’t the first time Romano has been lonely, you know,” he whispered, as France’s fingers danced along Romano’s navel. “The first time I was there, but it was only an accident.”

He gave the curl a sharp tug, coaxing France with Romano’s low whine, though at this point it was hardly necessary; France had already pried open the buttons to Romano’s shirt, and his hands trailed down tanned skin, pausing to tweak a nipple. Romano inhaled sharply.

"I just wanted to visit my brother, and he was staying with Spain.” Veneziano felt his own skin prickle in excitement. “I knew their relationship wasn’t what it used to be, but it still surprised me. They didn’t notice me, and for some reason I couldn’t leave. I liked it, and there’s nothing wrong with that”

“ _F-France_!” Romano gasped.

Veneziano leaned back, a contented smile on his face. “See? He wants you!”

With no more qualms over the situation, France swung his leg over Romano’s lap, biting and sucking at his throat. Romano twisted and gasped, his hands looping around France’s neck and tugging him forward. It was funny how much convincing it took when they were both so clearly impassioned.

Veneziano shook his head, smiling. “The thing is, everyone is so busy these days, and I don’t want Romano to be lonely **—** I’d feel terrible about that! So I appreciate you helping out.” His gaze drifted to the window, watching as the hotel grew nearer. “Not that it matters to you, of course…”

——

In the end, France never escorted Romano to his own room, as promised. Under the pretense of not knowing Romano’s room number, Veneziano easily persuaded France to his own room. Though in his frantic and disheveled state, Veneziano suspected France would have followed him anywhere—so long as there was a bed.

And Veneziano’s room was already prepped; the blankets were pulled down invitingly, the lights dimmed, and the lube set by the bedside table—most vital, as Veneziano couldn’t bear the thought of his brother being injured to the point of foregoing sex.

With the final piece of clothing tossed to the floor, France made his way to the bed, using every bit of the sultry, half-lidded grin he was known for. He crawled over Romano, and Veneziano loved the way his brother squirmed **—** more flustered than repulsed **—** when France skimmed his fingers along the hem of his pants, teasing him with faint brushes of skin.

Romano tipped his head back and parted his lips, an invitation which France took. A sharp gasp broke forth as France brushed his lips up Romano’s throat, leaving nips and kisses, harsher and more urgent than usual. The marks would last until the next day. Romano, always aggressive, grappled at France’s back, arching as he pulled them impossibly closer. He clawed at his shirt, attempting to tear through the buttons with his clumsy fingers.

With an underbreath chuckle, France closed his hands over Romano’s and brushed them away. But he pried them open too slow for Romano, who hissed through his teeth and bucked his hips up, trying to stimulate himself against France’s thigh. He was so impatient, so _needy_ , and it worried Veneziano to think how his brother would have coped without his help.

He hardly needed to stifle his own moans. Already feeling the tightness growing in his pants, Veneziano reached up to caress his curl; each light brush of his thumb and index finger sent jolts down his spine.

It wasn’t so much the sight before him, but the thought of what was _to come_ when they were both fully hard and horny, and France pushed Romano’s legs apart, deciding he was too incapacitated to top.

Romano was beautiful in sex, but he was even better when he was being _fucked_.

And even more delightful was the realization that he had been victorious.

Veneziano _made_ this happen.

With a new fervor, he grappled his hardening member through his pants, rubbing it softly. A low, breathless whine escaped his throat from the combined stimulation from his curl and his cock, and he staggered to lean against the wall as he stroked himself.

He couldn’t get off too quickly—not before Romano came. France had only now managed to pull Romano’s uncooperative arms through the sleeves of his shirt, and after tossing it off to the side, focused his attention on Romano’s erection. France slipped his fingers under the hem of Romano’s pants and stroked him slowly, using his free hand to tug his pants down.

It was amusing how Romano had the decency to flush a furious red, particularly after his earlier, and very loud, performance, when the boxers were dragged past his thighs. His cock sprung free, already beading pre-cum. France let his thumb run over his head, and carried it to his mouth. He wrapped his lips around the digit, meeting Romano’s gaze all the way, and sucked obscenely.

Romano sputtered and pushed himself up by the elbows, craning his head to glare at France, but also allowing Veneziano a full view of his face; flushed, intoxicated with pleasure, but still so characteristically _Romano—_ with his pouting lips and scowl.

“G-Get on with it!” he hissed, emphasizing his point by kicking his pants off the side of the bed.

Veneziano giggled. He was just as incorrigibly impatient as Romano, but his brother was always so childishly _forceful_ with what he wanted.

France ran his tongue over his thumb once more before pulling himself up to his knees. He batted Romano’s hands away from his erection, and then reached over his head for the bottle of lube, making a teasing comment too low for Veneziano to hear.

In response, Romano pursed his lips into a taut line and spread his legs apart. Veneziano couldn’t determine whether he was glaring in impatience or mortification; likely both, as Romano had to be desperate to show such obedience.  
  
With his fingers wet and slicked, France eased his way into Romano’s ass. He would never tarnish his reputation as a lover, but his impatience urged him to begin with two fingers rather than one. It was no huge feat for Romano, who accepted the intrusion with only scrunched eyes and a tiny hiss.

They were nations, after all, and Romano was far from inexperienced.

Veneziano regretted having missed hearing his brother’s sob the first time he was taken. He suspected Spain. It _should_ have been Spain, as the only time he had seen them Spain had ravished his brother’s body as if every sensitive area had been burned to his memory.

It was very… _routine_.

Not at all like France.

It didn’t hold the same thrill as watching France shift through Romano’s strands and proceed to tug at his curl with novice fingers, not applying quite the right amount of pressure as he tried to settle the other.

(“Relax, dear, relax,” he murmured by Romano’s ear.)

France inserted a third finger, and altered the angle of his wrist. Romano squirmed, but the sharp gasp a moment later told Veneziano he had finally found his prostate. Romano’s fingers curled into the bed sheets.

“F-Fuck, just _go_ —” he slurred.

“Yes, yes…” France breathed. He withdrew his hand and groped for the lube he left discarded on the mattress. This time, he covered the length of his cock with strong, hurried strokes.

France wasn’t the type to fuck someone from behind. Veneziano appreciated that.

His position by the closet allowed him to see every muddled emotion flickering through Romano’s face, and when he tilted his hips up anticipatively, he had a clear view of France’s cock pressing against the tight little hole of his ass.

Romano sucked in his breath, attempting to relax his muscles, though the alcohol helped a bit with that. He closed his eyes and let out a tiny whine as France pushed through the ring of muscle. The first few thrusts were shallow. France readjusted his forearms to better angle himself, dipping his head down, the strands of his hair falling along Romano’s cheek.

Veneziano ran his tongue down the length of his palm, and then reached for his cock. He matched the strokes along his shaft to the rhythm with which France steadily rocked his hips against Romano’s, the strained gasps that escaped Romano’s mouth and mingled with France’s panting. Their lips were centimeters apart, nearly a kiss, but France held himself far enough to stare into Romano’s hazy eyes as he fucked him.

It was artistic. Romano’s lips red and raw, sore from being bitten, his skin hot all over, whereas France was cold, statuesque in his movements. The muscles in his back shifted with each thrust, the veins in his forearms tensed on either side. Romano’s fingers had left the sheets and now dug into France’s back, but judging by the rhythmic moans, neither of them was focusing on the pain.

Romano threw his head back, the tendons in his neck going taut and his lips parted in a soundless scream. Each sharp breath he took wracked his body with shudders, until finally, with France’s next thrust, he clenched his teeth, body jerking, and came over himself.

Red-faced, in a disarray, and covered in the sheen of sweat and his own seed— _ah!_ Veneziano bit hard on his cheek to prevent himself from moaning, though he suspected neither of them would notice, not when Romano was entirely spent and France was so, so close—

Veneziano loved the exposed weakness just as much as the pleasure.

And judging by the tiny whimpers that came from Romano, the forced stimulation was starting to turn uncomfortable. The noises were somehow just as enticing as his cries of pleasure, causing Veneziano’s stomach to twist in a way that wasn’t all unpleasant.

Romano clawed at the sheets only for France to close his hands over his wrists and hold him down, quickening his pace. In an attempt to comfort (or silence) him, France’s lips trailed down the side of Romano’s face, peppering kisses and whispering soft apologies. But when the tears didn’t subside, he pressed his mouth over Romano’s and smothered his sobs with a kiss.

Romano’s eyes fluttered shut, and for a moment Veneziano thought he was simply too exhausted to raise more of a complaint. But, the hands that dug into the mattress had loosened their grip, every muscle in Romano’s body simultaneously going slack, and his head fell back, compliant as France rolled his tongue against motionless lips.

And if anything, France only seemed to buck his hips harder against Romano’s unconscious body.

Veneziano paused. This wasn’t right.

It wasn’t quite _Romano_ without his feisty words and abrasiveness.

And yet, the sight of him reduced to a ragdoll, his expression having been contorted into something lost between pleasure and pain until finally giving way, and his raw vulnerabilities exposed without the armor of his sharp words or frown—

“ _Ahh_ ,” Veneziano gasped. He inhaled sharply and gripped the wall for support; he couldn’t come yet, not before he saw France finish inside his brother’s ass—

The strand of hair Veneziano had neglected found its way back into his hand, and this time he yanked at it—nearly to the point of painful, biting back his sob—and slipped it between his teeth. He sucked at it and flicked it with his tongue, whining and moaning, both sounds muffled against his clenched teeth.

He winced speculatively at Romano’s pain, shuddered at the memory of his pleasure, and felt the room spin around him.

Before him, France threw his head back, eyes squeezed shut. His groans grew more erratic, animalistic, as if he had lost all sensation of his being. Whatever pleasure he was seeking, it no longer existed in the bedroom, or in the identity of the person pinned under him, whose wrists he clenched hard enough to shatter, if human.

It was purely physical.

France grabbed Romano by the hips and dragged him up, tossing one leg over his shoulder. Veneziano forced his eyes open, even as tears welled up and blurred his vision. France’s hurried, rasping French filled his ears, and he imagined Romano’s sobs singing in tune.

He blinked his eyes rapidly.

France dug his nails into flesh and clutched Romano’s hips hard against his, holding him in place. Veneziano’s hips jerked up in a spasm and he came into his hand, not a second after France’s throaty groan. The wet, sticky warmth covered his hands, but he kept pumping until his cock, hand, and pants were covered in his own mess.

But it pleased him to see he was nowhere as filthy as his brother, who lay sprawled open and exposed on the bed, used, cum dribbling out his hole and between his thighs even as France pulled away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is SFW
> 
> Thanks to Sara Generis for betaing!

“Shit!” Romano cringed as he stumbled through the elevator doors. Everything hurt. “Shit, shit, _shit_! How much did I fucking drink?”

Beside him, Veneziano shrugged his shoulders. “Too much? No one could get between you and the bottle.”

“Should have tried harder, dumbass. The worst thing about this is that I can’t remember anything about last night. A hangover should not be this goddamn severe!”

Veneziano smiled and pressed the button for the sixth floor. The elevator doors slid shut. “You’ll probably feel better if you get some rest. You should have just stayed back in the hotel, like I told you to.”

“Yeah right. You know the boss is going to give me hell if I dump all the work on you.”

“He wouldn’t be able to complain. He’d look insensitive if he did. Especially because you look so pale!”

Veneziano’s hand moved to his forehead, but Romano flicked it away. “Jesus, Veneziano. If you’re so desperate to mother someone, go adopt a kid.”

Veneziano just giggled—like it was a _compliment_ —and stepped back to his corner. Sighing, Romano closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall.

Bad idea.

“— _F-Fuck_!”

Searing white shot up his spine. As if the hangover wasn’t enough, the lightest bump could set his nerves aflame. His legs stumbled, and over the dull buzz that flooded his ears he heard Veneziano’s alarm—

“ _Romano, are you okay_?”

His response was garbled, even to himself. He wasn’t aware of Veneziano’s arms circling around him, tucking under his armpits and supporting him against the wall, until the hazy film disappeared and two very concerned brown eyes came into focus.

Romano blinked. Veneziano’s face was centimeters from his, and the effort to keep from going cross-eyed left him feeling queasier.

“Romano…?” Veneziano repeated, slapping a palm over his damp forehead. “Are you sick? Are you going to faint? _Oh no_ —stay with me!”

“Nghh…”

If Romano wasn’t so wary of his flip-flopping stomach and the sudden urge to heave, he might have thrown back a retort. He was fine, _dammit,_ if only his legs could quit quivering like some sickly grandpa’s. The last thing he needed was all this fussing, and if Veneziano could simply _let go of him_ —

He parted his lips and took a slow breath, but he was interrupted by the _ding!_ of the elevator. The doors flew open, with Veneziano’s arms still holding him upright.

He shoved his palms against Veneziano’s chest. “Enough already! Get _off_ —”

The fluster of politicians bustling about the sixth floor _might_ have remained oblivious.

But Veneziano chose that moment to break down with his frantic cry. “ _Help_! Something’s wrong with my brother!”

Did the idiot not _hear_ him?

Romano slapped a palm over his brother’s mouth. _“_ Shut up, dumbass! I’m fine!”

But the damage had been done. Once the first few politicians had been alerted, they began scuttling about in alarm. Their panicked signals alerted the rest, and word quickly hit Italy’s representatives.

A nation falling ill could imply tremendous economic consequences.

 _Or_ it could mean he was a loser who couldn’t handle his alcohol.

Fuck, this was _mortifying_. Romano’s cheeks burned as two men hurried in and practically _carried_ him out, all the while surrounded by politicians crowding him with their multilingual inquisitions.

“W-What are you doing? I’m not dying, you bastards!” He twisted his head around to face his brother, who was trailing anxiously behind him. “Tell them to go away!”

“Ve…” Veneziano whined, flailing his hands and doing absolutely nothing to stop the ruckus that _he_ had started. “Maybe you should sit down for a while, Romano.” He patted one of the nearby diplomats. “Excuse me, do you think you could get him a glass of water?”

It was humiliating. Much against his will, Romano was escorted to one the couches in the lobby, in clear sight of the last few nations rushing to the meeting room. He felt their stares searing into the back of his neck, taking in his deathly pale face and uncoordinated movements.

For fuck’s sake, they better not start spreading goddamn _dying_ rumors about him.

A moment later, Veneziano plopped down by his side, a bottle of water in hand. He offered it to Romano, appearing incredibly nonchalant for the histrionics he had displayed only moments earlier.

“There’s no need to sulk. We’re all just looking out for you!” Veneziano reached for his arm and stroked it gently, and Romano hated that he didn’t even possess the energy to shove him away. He pinched his eyes shut, silently fuming, and sipped at his water.

At the very least, everyone could thank him for the delay. The meeting was postponed ten minutes so that Germany could scare all the foreign diplomats back into their respective seats.

 _No need to panic_ , he droned to each one of them, although the only one on edge appeared to be Germany himself. Romano was surprised the vein in his head didn’t burst.

Though that wasn’t even the worst part.

Once Germany was done ordering everyone else around, he switched his focus to Romano, and actually had the nerve to appear _concerned_. Romano was bombarded with inquiries to his health, to which he responded with either a blunt _yes_ or _no. No,_ he did not need an ambulance. _Yes,_ he was fine. _No_ , he did not want to have someone send him up food from a cafeteria that was befouled with _German food_. And _yes,_ he would still be able to attend the meeting if _certain assholes_ left him alone to catch his breath.

Romano was bitterly satisfied at the sight of Germany’s sigh of surrender.

“Alright. I suppose you’re tired and need your rest. I’m sorry for disturbing you.” Germany rose to his feet and took a step back. He cleared his throat to address the two of them, though his gaze seemed to focus on Veneziano. “With everyone already seated in place, I don’t think the meeting can be rescheduled. Are you going to wait with your brother?”

No, clearly only speaking to Veneziano.

Veneziano nodded earnestly. “Yes, of course! I know the meeting is important, but I’d like to take care of Romano!”

“You’re just trying to get out of doing work, you terrible liar,” Romano muttered.

“It’s fine. I can have a briefing of the meeting copied and printed for you, and reschedule your presentation to the second half of the meeting.” Germany’s eyes briefly shifted in his direction in what was intended to be a sympathetic look. “Hopefully you’ll feel better by then.”

Romano nearly gagged, but Veneziano answered for him. “Oh, thank you, Germany! That would be great! I’m sure Romano will be good as new after a short nap!”

Now he _really_ felt ill.

Thankfully, that ended the conversation between his brother and the bastard. The meeting had already been delayed long enough. Germany hurried back to check on the nations left unattended inside the meeting room, who had no doubt managed to tear the place apart in the few minutes without supervision.

“You know, I don’t need a chaperone to take a nap,” he muttered.

He felt Veneziano’s hand worming into his, squeezing his fingers. “I told you, I’m here to keep you company!” Veneziano followed his gaze to the meeting room. “Don’t worry about that! Germany will take care of whatever we miss. He always finds a way to work out everything!”

The gesture might have been appreciated if Veneziano hadn’t twisted it into a compliment to Germany.

Romano snorted. “You act like he’s some type of superhero.”

“Well, he’s good at a lot of things.” Veneziano leaned his head close and grinned cheekily. “But he’s doing a terrible job at quieting down everyone. I can still hear shouting from inside.”

“Yeah, it’s annoying.”

“But it’s kind of funny too. Listen—isn’t that England’s voice? Who do you think he’s yelling at?”

Romano heard a muffled screech along the lines of "you bloody bastard!" and something about waking up at a bar. Gossip he'd rather drone out for the time being. He grunted and offered him a shrug, hoping Veneziano would take the hint. But Veneziano rarely did.

“It sounds like France. I wonder what he did to make England so angry.” Veneziano giggled. “Hmm, but it seems like England is always angry with him. What do you think?”

Romano took a deep breath, but it did little to restrain him from retorting, “My head hurts enough as it is, and I don’t fucking care about England and France’s stupid pissing contest!”

“Oh, that’s right!” Veneziano finally looked at him, but continued on, unperturbed. “How are you feeling?”

“What the fuck do you think?” he growled. “Painkillers don’t do shit for our kind. I feel like a middle-aged man after a night of regret, and the worst part about all of this is that I don’t even _remember_ any of it because you still haven’t told me the truth!”

“But it’s exactly what I told you!” Veneziano protested. “I left you on your own for a few minutes when I went to the bathroom, and when I came back I found you being friendly with one of the locals.”

“Well, I wouldn’t do that!” In fact, it was the dumbest story he had ever heard, and Veneziano could come up with some unbelievably idiotic stories. “I—I’m not some desperate college kid! You must have misinterpreted it! Are you sure the alcohol didn’t screw up your memory too?”

“Nope, I didn’t drink that much, so I remember everything crystal clear!” Veneziano insisted.

But the strange thing was Romano didn’t recall any memory of Veneziano drinking _at all_. His brother was annoying enough as it was, and after just a couple drinks he was normally singing or doing something equally embarrassing. Whenever he _did_ go to the bathroom, he dragged Romano along because he either needed help unzipping his pants or was scared he’d stumble and fall into the toilet.

“Look, you don’t even remember anything.” Veneziano pointed out. “If you were that drunk, you could have done anything! Everyone does weird things when they’re drunk, so kissing a stranger is nothing to feel ashamed of! In fact, it’s perfectly normal!”

Not to mention, it had been a long time since Romano had been intimate with anyone. Was he that desperate that he would accept the first loser he set his eyes on in a bar? He would have liked to believe differently, but… to his mortification, the scenario was entirely plausible.

Romano fixed his gaze to the ground. “Then, is that…is that where… _the marks,_ ” he tugged at his collar, “came from?”

 How humiliating for Veneziano, who was supposed to be following _his_ example, to see him behave so irresponsibly.

Veneziano, however, did not seem to grasp the severity of the situation. “Yeah! You guys were doing a lot of stuff, it was so crazy! In a bar, too! And then you almost lost your shirt, and I had to pull you away, but then you tried to kick me, and—”

Romano slapped a palm over his brother’s mouth. “Sh-shut up! You’re talking too loud!”.

“ _Mmphh_ —But now you’re the one shouting!”

“Never mind that!” He drew away, frowning. There was that _ache_ he felt all over, too embarrassingly familiar to mistake. “But…you said you stopped us, so I…I didn’t… Why does it hurt all over?”

“Um…” Veneziano inched back and began fidgeting with his hands. When he laughed, it came out shrill and nervous. “Don’t get mad, okay?”

Shit, that didn’t sound good.

“Well?” Romano demanded.

“O-Okay. When we got back to the hotel I had to carry you to your room, all by myself. But you were _reeaaally_ heavy. And then the elevator was down, so I had to carry you up a flight of stairs, but your feet kept bouncing around. And that made me trip, and I dropped you. Down a flight of stairs.” He grimaced. “ _Whoops_.”

“Are you fucking serious?”

Veneziano took one look at him. “Eeep! I didn’t mean to! Don’t blame me! Get mad at the elevator, or the elevator repairman—not me! At least you healed right away, even though the pain might be taking a little longer. And I still carried you back to my room and let you sleep in my bed, since it was really late and I was scared you’d be mad if you woke up in your room alone.”  
  
Romano slapped a hand over his face. “Whatever,” he snapped. “That doesn’t explain why I’m particularly so sore… _down_ _there_.”  
  
Veneziano shrugged. “I don’t know! Maybe you fell on your butt?” The strange face he made as he did his best not to laugh—the fact that he found the whole thing _funny—_ made Romano’s blood boil.

If he trusted himself not to black out a second time, Romano would have leapt to his feet and stormed away. Instead, he made do with whirling the other way, clenching his hands into tight fists. “Fuck you! Why are you here anyway, huh? Why don’t you just go back to the meeting and bother your stupid, steroid boyfriend instead of me?” His vision swam, but he set his jaw in a firm line, clenching his teeth to swallow the sour lump in his throat.

“Aw, Romano…” Veneziano floundered—for _once_ —and Romano felt him tentatively reaching for his shoulder. He feigned ignorance, because Veneziano’s touch was always gentle and he’d be lying if he said he hated it.

“What?” he snapped.

“I stayed because I was worried about you—really!” Veneziano looped his arm around and pulled him into a hug. Romano couldn’t pretend he didn’t feel _that_ , but he also couldn’t bring himself to shrug away. “I wasn’t trying to be mean! I just thought you needed to laugh! Sometimes smiling makes people feel better when they’re upset!”

“Yeah, you’re _real_ funny.”

“Hey, come on! Are you sulking? Look, how about I set up a hot water bath for you after the meeting? That should make the ache go away! And then I’ll make some yummy tomato soup, and you can sit on the couch wrapped up in a warm blanket and just watch TV.”

Romano peered up from under furrowed brows. “We’re in Germany. Where the hell are you going to buy tomatoes that don’t suck?”

“You like my cooking, though! The tomatoes can’t be that horrible if I cook them myself! Doesn’t that sound nice?”

He wanted to refuse, because eating his brother’s cooking nearly every day when they were home didn’t make it _that_ much of a luxury, but when the alternative was dying of food poisoning…

“Alright, fine. If you’re gonna bug me about it, then…whatever. We can do that, because… well… it’s not like I have anything better to do today!”

Veneziano clapped his hands together. “That’s great! I can’t wait! We can visit the market straight after the meeting. I can help you find your hotel room, too, once we get back. It’s in the floor above mine, I think. It would have been nice if we could have stayed in the same hall, but it gets crowded this time of the year, I suppose.”  
  
“Great, another checklist of things to do _after_ the meeting. And there’s still about an hour to wait until Germany calls a break.” Romano sighed and slouched back.

“Why don’t you take a nap while waiting?” Veneziano suggested.

“Out here?”

“Don’t worry! I’ll stay right by you and make sure you’re okay.”

Romano flushed. “That’s not what I meant, dumbass! I just thought it was weird to sleep out in the open!”

“I’m sure no one will mind. After all, if you get some rest you might feel better during the meeting. And have more energy for our plans afterwards!” Veneziano nudged him to the side with the arm he had wrapped around his shoulder, so that Romano’s head rested against Veneziano’s chest. “You can sleep like this if it’s more comfortable.”

Romano pushed himself up, scanning the room warily. “That’s embarrassing. What if someone sees?” No, that wasn’t right. His concern wasn’t whether they were spotted—he didn’t _want_ to be coddled by his baby brother.

“No one’s here. I’ll be sure to wake you as soon as the meeting ends—before anyone comes out,” Veneziano promised, coaxing him back into a resting position.

For the time being, it seemed easier to comply with Veneziano’s requests, especially when throwing a tantrum was sure to lead to tears from Veneziano and more noise to aggravate Romano’s headache. He huffed and settled his limbs into a more comfortable position, curled on the couch.

“This is all _your_ fault,” Romano grumbled, though as he closed his eyes he hardly remembered what the problem was.

* * *

Napping was an awful idea.

Romano pulled himself to his feet feeling groggier than he had been before. His skin felt clammy under the tight collar of a suit he used to consider one of his favorites. Veneziano had shaken him awake with a simpering coo that was more annoying than comforting, and Romano had grunted and squirmed in his sleep until his already crappy dream fell apart to reveal an even more disappointing reality.

He might have taken up Veneziano’s offer to skip out on the meeting, but being surrounded by the disapproving stares of Germany’s people in the now crowded lobby didn’t sound like a comforting way to sleep.

Not that Romano was intimidated. It was just that he already had enough shit to deal with from his own politicians after the earlier commotion, and he wasn’t prepared to deal with more feigned concern.

“Are you sure you want to come in? You don’t look that good.”

And then there was his brother, who seemed insistent on getting rid of him.

Romano huffed and quickened his pace. “Listen, Veneziano. If I made the effort to get dressed and come all the way here, I’m not going to waste it by napping on that scratchy sofa.” Never mind that he had woken up in yesterday’s clothes and hadn’t showered since yesterday morning.

“I know, but if you change your mind you don’t have to hesitate about telling me. You might get dizzy again, and we already caused a bit of a commotion earlier today.”

“ _You_ caused a commotion,” Romano corrected, ignoring the sharp ache in his thighs in order to surpass his brother. “I probably just needed some water, and I could have bought a bottle without you scaring half the politicians to death.”

“I’m sorry! I was just so worried!”

“Whatever. It’s all been sorted out now.”

They stopped by the door of the meeting room. Romano waited until the train of nations had mostly cleared out, and then followed Veneziano into the meeting room. A few nations still remained, clearing off the last points of discussion in smaller groups. Germany had his back turned to them as he adjusted the settings of the overhead projector.

“Germany!” Veneziano nearly screeched, and threw himself on the bastard as if they hadn’t seen each other in years. It would have been more amusing if the machine had been smashed in the process, but Germany’s embarrassing choked sound of surprise was entertainment enough.

Germany managed to catch his balance and lower Veneziano and lowered him to the ground. His mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. “Italy, _please_. I’ve asked you to restrain from doing that.”

Romano snorted and followed behind him, glancing around. There were placards marking each person’s seat. Nothing surprising coming from Germany. “So when are we presenting?” he demanded.

The two of them quickly pulled apart, though Romano suspected they would have had no problem smiling dopily at each other without his interruption—and _oh god_ was that an awful look on Germany.

Germany promptly ignored his question and cleared his throat. “How do you feel, Romano? Are you any better?”

“I look fine, don’t I?”

Germany opened his mouth, glanced over the rumpled suit he had been wearing the day before, and then quickly shut it. “Yes, of course.”

He was an awful liar, and Romano hated him all the more for it.

“Romano’s feeling a lot better!” Veneziano butted in, drawing his arm around his. “But we’re going to go home early after the meeting so we can both relax!”

“That seems like a good idea,” Germany said, heading for the desk at the side. He drew up a stack of papers, all separately stapled and labeled with a post-it note. “I had everyone who already presented send me a copy of their PowerPoint slides, and I had them printed out for you. As to when you present, it’s up to the two of you. If you feel prepared, you can begin as soon as break ends. Er—Veneziano, will you be speaking?”

Veneziano nodded, accepting the notes Germany handed him. “Yeah! I might go second or third, depending on how many people still have to speak. Who’s up next?”

“Belgium, I believe. Should I put you down to speak after her?”

“Sure!”

Never mind that Germany hadn’t asked for _his_ opinion. He simply assumed Romano didn’t want to lead the presentation. (Which he didn’t, but that was beside the point!) He scowled at Germany’s back until he was out of earshot. “Maybe you were right. I see one huge reason why I should have stayed home, and it smells like potatoes.”

It was the type of comment he made to provoke some type of reaction from his brother. Veneziano would normally pout and admonish him in a tone that was not at all intimidating, but this time there was no response from his brother.

It took another moment to register Veneziano wasn’t even beside him.

Hungary had reentered the room, and Veneziano had promptly dumped the stack of papers onto the table before dashing over to greet her. Romano bit back his curse. Why didn’t it surprise him that his brother abandoned him to chit-chat with a pretty lady?

Of course, Hungary’s affection for the two of them was entirely sisterly. But as Veneziano began prattling to her about some cat he had seen on his way to the building, she clung to his every word with an adoration she had never shown _him_.

Romano snatched the papers and marched his way to his seat—the best he could with his limp. Some of his courage waned without his brother’s presence beside him, but he’d be damned before he let a few curious stares get to him. The worst Germany could do was seat him next to someone really annoying—like Poland. The last time the eccentric nation’s chatter had gotten them both in trouble.

A quick scan of the room revealed that most of the nations were spending the last few minutes of their break time with informal discussion outside of their seats. In fact, the only person currently seated was France. And by some cruel twist of fate, their seats had been arranged directly across from each other.

Fuck. As if Spain wasn’t sappy enough, France spouted some of the cheesiest pickup lines in history. And lately he had taken it upon himself to fuss over Romano as if he were Romano’s big brother figure as much as Veneziano’s. Fucking wuss had probably been bribed into it by his brother.

This time, however, France appeared distracted. His eyes were focused on the table, only darting upward at the abrasive sound Romano’s chair made as it scraped backwards, and as soon their gazes met his face went ashen.

“R-Romano. You—I was under the impression you were ill—” At Romano's withering stare, France clamped his jaw shut, but Romano still felt his eyes piercing into him, too attentive as Romano gingerly eased himself into his seat.

Romano’s cheeks burned. He was suddenly conscious of the marks glaring out from under his collar. He had been sure to comb his hair that morning, but it felt as disheveled as it had been when he woke up sweaty and fully clothed in yesterday’s suit. His spare clothes were in the suitcase delivered to his own room, which he hadn’t had time to retrieve, and he knew the shirt he was wearing was rumpled with creases as if it had just flown through the dryer.

Whatever. He was hungover and sore. Was that so shocking? More likely, the bastard was teasing him; who knew what perverted misconceptions were flashing through his mind…

“Well, I’m clearly still alive and kicking.” Romano sent him a swift glare before turning his attention to his paperwork. There were a few printed copies of slides from previous presentations to look through, and a few documents he needed to read over and sign.

He could probably hold off on the signatures until Veneziano quit babbling to his friends like an idiot. For now, he would make do by jotting down some notes beside the other presentations. All he had to do was skim over them one more time, and—

He swore under his breath, patting down his pockets. Shit, had he honestly forgotten a pen?

Dammit, there went his excuse.

And France was still _watching_ him with that all too careful look and his trembling mouth and nervous twitch of fingers. Romano felt as if he was on his deathbed with the way France expected him to keel over at any moment.

Maybe he should take a leaf out of Greece’s book and nap until the meeting started.

But before he could rest his head on the table, Prussia and Spain burst through the door, shaking with laughter. They darted toward France and ducked behind his chair. Seconds later, a furious England charged through the door and after them, snorting hot air from his nostrils.

“You _arses_ —don’t you fucking dare—!”

He halted in his tracks when he came face-to-face with France.

England clenched his fists. France stared up at him pitifully.

“I’m sor—” France began, but England swore under his breath and quickly swept the other way, abandoning whatever qualm he had with Prussia and Spain. His briefcase slammed the table with a loud enough bang to drop the room into silence.

What the hell was going on? Romano noticed Veneziano had finally turned away from Hungary, and he shot his brother a questioning look. But Veneziano was instead staring at France, and upon following his gaze Romano found the other nation trembling in his seat like a reprimanded child. With the amount of drama that went on between nations, it was shocking they hadn’t started their own reality TV show.

Still snickering, Prussia snuck up behind France and tossed an arm over his shoulder. “So,” he began, speaking loud enough for Romano—and much of the room—to hear. “Crankypants over there won’t tell us what went on last night. Which means I’m going to have to drag the information out of you.”

France took a deep breath, meeting Romano’s frown before darting his eyes back to the table. “This is something I’m really not interested in discussing.”

Spain pulled into the seat next to France. Catching Romano’s gaze, he beamed, and Romano quickly looked away. “Hey, Romano!” he exclaimed. “We heard from Germany you weren’t feeling well. I hope you aren’t sick.”

“No, Spain, it’s totally different when you’re hungover!” Prussia cut in. “Hangovers are the victory symptoms of drinking like a champ. Unless you’re a total pussy like England and pass out after one shot!”

Spain laughed. Romano’s cheeks felt warmer than normal. And because he knew his face was already flushed, it couldn’t be a good sign. Out of the three pairs of eyes on him, he found it easier to focus on Prussia’s, sharp and taunting as they were. Romano thrust his chin up proudly. “Well, I beat my brother’s record, so fuck off.”

Prussia whistled. “You did, did you? Guess that means I’ve got to start working on West’s. That boy is built like a fucking tank—which he inherited entirely from me! His endurance could probably put Russia to shame!” He nudged Spain, smirk widening. “Hey, that’s something we should do! Have a drinking contest between my bro and Russia. Once Russia loses he’ll probably run off crying. It would be awesome!”

“Ah… but Germany wouldn’t agree to something like that, would he?” Spain asked.

“Not sober, but I could probably coax him into getting drunk with me first. We’ll throw back a couple beers, and once he starts to loosen up on the edges I’ll ease him into the stronger drinks.”

“That’s disgusting.”

France’s snarl was so faint that Romano didn’t realize he was speaking. Prussia and Spain simultaneously turned to him, their laughs silenced by his unusual tone. Spain peeked around France as if he couldn't believe the words had come from his friend.

“Huh?” Spain asked.

“I said that’s disgusting. That you would do something like that to your own brother.”

What was startlingly odd about the scene unfolding before Romano was that France—despite his accusation—seemed to lack true venom. His tone was nonchalant, as if he had made a simple observation rather than struck one of Prussia's known weak spots.

And if anyone appeared affronted, it was currently Prussia. He pulled himself up to full height, jaw clenched. “The _hell_ , France? It’s a joke, I’m not hurting him. What the hell are you implying here?”

France dropped back into silence, rubbing his palms against each other.

“Are you going to take that back or what?” Prussia demanded.

Spain looked between his two friends nervously. “Hey,” he cut in, “Looks like the meeting is about to start soon! We should get back to our seats now, right? Haha…” He gripped Prussia by the arm, tugging him back when his interference wasn’t rewarded with a punch. “Come on, if you don’t escape soon enough you might get stuck staring through the presentations. And you know Germany won’t let _you_ sleep through the meeting, ahaha.”

Although Prussia insisted on showing up whenever a meeting was hosted in Germany, he made it clear he disliked the forced formality of modern politics. The discussions rarely resulted as such, but Germany refused to excuse him for swearing during arguments or trying to fire paper projectiles at Austria while he was speaking.

Prussia stepped away with a snort. If he had glanced around him he might have realized the meeting wasn’t any closer to resuming than it had been a few minutes ago, but it seemed he was too furious to pay attention to anything more than not bumping into anyone as Spain led him away. “You better snap out of this soon enough,” he barked over his shoulder.

France didn’t even turn to watch the retreating figures of his friends, or Spain effectively ushering Prussia out the door. But Romano did, pursing his lips.

Not even a goodbye.

That bastard.

As excusable as it was, considering Spain had barely prevented a clash between his two best friends, it was evident that Romano had slipped from his mind like he always did.

As he turned away from the door, Romano caught France staring at the desk.  " _Merde..._ " he hissed under his breath.

Romano froze.

_Wet, heat, hands running down his chest, pleasure, that alluring voice and crystal eyes._

What…what the hell?

Romano took a slow breath and dropped his head into his hands. Where the fuck did that thought come from?

He shook his head, willing the image from his mind. The touches, blinded by the scent of alcohol and cologne, the warmth—none of it was unpleasant. But there was something underlying the image, something in the background that was horrifyingly sickening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is very much appreciated, and if you notice any errors don't hesitate to point them out!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short update. Extremely late update.
> 
> Sorry :( Hopefully I'll keep working on this story to the end. Thanks to everyone who has read or commented thus far!

Veneziano was such a liar.

The soothing evening together, the hot water bath, the fucking bowl of tomato soup. Veneziano could bullshit his way through anyone with sweet words, Romano included. Maybe his brother _had_ sincerely wanted to do something nice for him, and maybe the promises hadn’t been so empty when he first made them. But it made little difference when they had just been released after the meeting and Veneziano was already flaking out.

“I’m _sooorry_!” Veneziano wailed, as if repeating it enough times would diminish the hurt Romano felt—not that Romano let it show, because the last thing he wanted was for Veneziano to realize he had been more eager about spending time with him than he let on. “We might not have time to go to the market and buy fresh ingredients, but we can still have dinner together! I’m sure there’s an Italian restaurant nearby. It might not taste as bad as you think!”

“I still don’t get it! Why do you want me to go back without you? What does he—” Romano gestured wildly at France “—want to talk about that’s so important it’ll take more than ten minutes?”

“It’s not that it’s so important, I just wouldn’t want you to have to wait for me!”

“Talk to him later, for fuck’s sake! We aren’t leaving Germany! There’s another meeting tomorrow and the day after. Hell, call him up later tonight.”

Then France, as if his stupid moping mouth and downcast eyes hadn’t been enough to agitate Romano throughout the meeting, decided to speak up.  “Please, Romano, don’t be unreasonable.  I wouldn’t request that Italy break prior engagements if it weren’t urgent.”

 _Italy_.

France had called Veneziano “Italy”.

He had some real fucking nerve.

The asshole had been dragging his feet behind the two of them nearly the entire length of the hallway—unnerving the hell out of Romano, though Veneziano remained characteristically oblivious—and now that he had finally mustered the courage to speak up, he had the audacity to tell Romano to get lost.

Romano swirled around to fix his glare on France.  “Didn’t you hear me?  I said no!  If this is really so important I should be able to hear about it too!  Or did you forget I’m half of Italy?”

France looked laughably abashed.  “I-I’m sorry.  I didn’t intend to disrespect you, Romano.  It’s just that _Veneziano_ and I—” he corrected “—have private matters to discuss—nothing political.  Please don’t take it personally.”

It was a half-assed apology.  If France really cared, he would have remembered that “Italy” wasn’t just Veneziano.  “Italy and Romano” was becoming so prevalent, that Romano suspected one of these days, he would turn to his brother and slip a “Hey, Italy” himself.

His skin was growing warmer and his eyes stung.  Romano suddenly felt the need the need to hit something, and the sympathetic face before him was beginning to seem like a real appealing target.

“Please don’t be upset,” France continued to speak, like it was a fucking choice, a switch he could just flick off and instantly behave like his cheerful, airheaded brother.

“I said no!  Is that not clear enough, asshole?”

“Veee…”  Veneziano whined.  “Romano, don’t be so grumpy!  We can have fun later!  I’m sure if France says it’s important, he’s telling the truth!”

“No!  Are you stupid?  Like hell I’m going to trust that sleazy wine-breath bastard alone with you.  You know what he’s like!”

“Like what?” France asked.

“Your mind is centered on _one_ thing! You’ll drag Veneziano somewhere secluded, no witnesses for the sake of _business._ ”

“What are you insinuating, Romano?”  There was a warning edge to France’s voice.

Romano should have recognized the cue to shut up, but he was bitter, desperate, and the accusation sprang from his mouth without restraint.

“You’re obviously trying to take advantage of my little brother!”

“That’s enough!”

Romano jolted back.  France’s piercing glare was enough to remind him why he felt compelled to duck and cower behind _fucking Germany_ all those years ago.

 “Your brother is capable of handling himself. More than can be said for you. You’re not a child anymore. You ought to show some maturity, and refrain from such… _sickening_ allegations!”

This felt _so_ wrong.

France could be a dick.

Romano knew. Hell, he claimed to hate the guy. He told jokes about France’s stupid, girly hair and his creepy smiles, and his flirting. But that’s all they were. _Jokes_. France ultimately laughed everything off. In fact, the more Romano poked fun at him, the more he pestered Romano with pecks on the cheek or playful flirtation.

He still remained a bit of an older brother figure to Romano, as much as a neighbor and a _friend_ , and he had never, ever lashed out at him before.

 _Romano_ was the one being hurt in this situation, and yet he couldn’t argue back, because as much as he hated to admit it, France was right. He was immature, selfish, and _fuck_ —he could already feel his throat choking up.

“Fuck you!” And Romano _hated_ that his voice cracked when he shouted, because it only emphasized what France said about him lacking maturity. He scrunched his eyes shut, squeezing back the tears.

“Romano,” Veneziano whispered, gentle and concerned as always. Romano heard his footsteps move forward, his soft hands wrapping around Romano’s. Veneziano was sweet, but he wouldn’t tolerate someone attacking his family.  He’d tell France to go away in his gooey sweet voice, and then they’d go back to the hotel and cook more pasta than they could eat and laugh at silly German television programs.

But instead Veneziano shook his head sympathetically. “Romano, you’re upset. You should go home and get some rest before you cause another scene.”

Humiliated tears stung his eyes, and Romano wasn’t able to hold back the next strangled sob.

Veneziano patted his back.  This time, the gesture came off more patronizing than comforting. “It’s okay, you’re tired. We understand. Take your siesta now. I’ll call you for dinner. I promise you’ll feel better by then!”

Romano scrubbed the tears from his eyes, and snorted sarcastically.  “The hell do you mean?  Why wouldn’t I be fine?  I don’t even care anymore! Enjoy your stupid, non-important, private discussion, bastards!”

 _Screw France. Screw Veneziano_.

Cheeks burning, he spun the other way and stormed out.  He knew he was only making more of a fool out of himself by insisting on having the last word, but he gained a weak feeling of satisfaction as he heard France call out after him.

 _Finally,_ after France had done nothing to speak up or apologize while Veneziano had practically brushed him aside. There was a second of hesitancy, as France seemed to be making an apology, but then Romano slammed the button like he heard nothing.

* * *

Veneziano tightened his grip around France’s arm. “It’s okay. Let him go.”

“I—I don’t know what I was thinking. I shouldn’t have said that. I made him cry! We should have gone after him.”

“Romano will be fine. Trust me, I know—I’m his brother. Besides, he’s too proud to accept our sympathy right now.”

 France shook his head. “No—no, it’s more than that! I’ve been avoiding it—I should have confronted him about last night—last night’s _incident_! When he didn’t bring it up I—I assumed it was something he wanted to put behind us, but—it’s not right! He was—I left him like that! Oh God…”

“France…” France was beginning to look unhinged, with his erratic gestures and ravings, and it was becoming harder for Veneziano to suppress the giggle threatening to burst from his lips. “ _You_ came to _me_ , didn’t you? Listen! I’ll get everything sorted out!  If you start acting as emotional as Romano you’re only going to make the situation messier!”

“I shouldn’t have—we were both drunk.” He snatched Veneziano’s two hands in his, pressing them to his chest. “You have to realize, I never intended to take advantage of your brother! I’m not that kind of man—not anymore!”

“Ve? You’re not a terrible person, France! I don’t blame you. These things happen, right? Like you said, you were both very drunk and no one was thinking clearly.”

France shook his head. “God, I…I don’t know. If it was just a one night stand it would be simple, but—something was wrong! I can’t explain it, but I don’t know what I was thinking! I—He passed out and I couldn’t— _didn’t_ —stop!”

“And then you left,” Veneziano admitted with a sigh. More like fled in drunken terror, half-buttoned clothes hanging comically askew. “But I took care of him. He was exhausted, didn’t even stir when I wiped off your mess and dressed him.”

A muscle in France’s face twitched. “Is he alright?”

“He’s…” Veneziano broke off, noticing a flicker of movement coming from down the hall.

Lax shoulders, lopsided gait. A messy head of curls and a grin that was evident even from the distance. Spain traipsed toward them, raising his hand in greeting.

Veneziano curled his fingers into France’s sleeve.

France hadn’t noticed. His head still hung like a dog that had been caught stealing food off the counter. “How bad… How bad is the pain? He was limping earlier today,” he choked out.

“Oh, he’s been through worse.  He’s tough, you know?  Don’t you agree?”

“Yes, but the situation—”

“Hey guys!”  Spain bounded the rest of the way over, and slapped an arm over France’s shoulder.  “What’re you talking about so seriously?  Everyone’s been acting so tense today.  It’s really weirding me out.”

“I think everyone was probably hungry.  I keep telling Germany not to put meetings so close to lunchtime but he never listens to me.” Veneziano pouted.

“Ah, that makes sense.  Well, I’m glad I found you two together. There’s something I’ve been meaning to say—or, well, to _ask—_ both of you. But first—” Spain squeezed France’s shoulder, frowning in concern. “—Hey, how’re you holding up?”

“France isn’t in the best mood today. He was actually just about to talk to me about it.” Veneziano answered for him.

Spain sighed. “Look, I’m sorry about Prussia. You know how he is—he can’t handle the stillness. He was kinda freaked out with you being so catatonic, so obviously he tried to provoke a response from you. He shoved you into the spotlight, it was insensitive, but you know it’s just him worrying.”

“I don’t blame Prussia for reacting the way he did.”

“Oh, what a relief!  Anyways, were you both going out somewhere?  I’ll join you!  There’s something I’m really excited to tell you both!”

“Vee, what is it?!”

“If I tell you now, it’ll spoil the suspense, won’t it?”

“You’re right!  How about we go to a café?  Germany showed me this nice one with really yummy pastries!”

“Great!” Spain grinned.  “Is that alright with you, France?”

France pursed his lips into a thin line.  “It’s fine.”  Before Spain arrived he was desperate, almost hysterical, but with Spain in such close proximity, he appeared more avoidant.

There were two options—France could continue to torment himself in silence, or he could come clean about the previous night to Spain. And Veneziano knew France valued his life too much to breathe a word. For the time being, Veneziano was free to do as he pleased.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another quick update! More plot this time around but there will likely be smut in the next update ;)

France felt shaky as he lowered himself into his seat.  He was squashed between Veneziano and Spain, and the two of them hadn’t paused in their insipid conversation about the weather and food since they left the building.  Even now, they chattered around him as if nothing was amiss.

Spain, he could understand.  Other than a few rare occasions of insightfulness, Spain was a bit dense and preferred to interpret things at a surface level.  Veneziano, on the other hand, didn’t seem to be reacting as normally as one would expect after his brother had stormed away on the verge of tears.  And, of course, after the events that had transpired the previous night.

France shuddered.

He wasn’t that kind of man.  Not anymore.

Or so he had believed.

Romano had been drunk beyond the point of comprehension.  Veneziano had requested his help in helping Romano home— _caring_ for him.  Then they had stumbled onto the bed, and somewhere in between France’s thoughts had switched from rational to instinctual, and then—

“Oh, the cakes here are so yummy!  I don’t know about the coffee.  Too watered down, I think—”

Veneziano’s hands flailed around as he spoke, and France wondered if he was possibly veiling his own distress.  It seemed to be a strategy of his, even in times of war.  He’d laugh and cry about the silliest things, but maybe, like Spain, focusing on the simpler problems helped him stay sane when his people were being killed.

What was Veneziano really thinking?  Was he angry with him?  Was he worried about Romano?

“Hey, France!  Are you really not going to order anything other than water?”  Veneziano suddenly asked.

“Hm?” France dragged his gaze up from the table, which he didn’t realize he had been spacing into.

“Yeah, France.  You really do seem kind of out of it.  You should eat something,” Spain agreed.

It was disconcerting to have both their both their eyes suddenly focused on him.  France offered a shrug and tried to smile through his worries, like Veneziano.  “Ah, no.  I’m fine.  I was simply thinking about how to remedy the situation with England.”  Amongst other things.

“Aw, don’t worry about it.”  Spain laughed.  “He’s fought with you over much simpler and he’s forgiven you for much worse.  It’ll work out.”

Veneziano stared at him a fraction of a second longer before nodding as well.  “Yeah, England sometimes scares me too, but everybody knows he’s as mushy as this cake!”

As if to emphasize his point, Veneziano pressed his fork against the top of his cake until it began to crumble.

France offered a weak chuckle.  “That’s quite true.  I’ll apologize to him again after he’s had some time to cool off.  After all, we didn’t come here to discuss my own problems.  I believe Spain had an important announcement to make.”

He nodded at Spain, hoping the change of topic would take the attention off himself.  It had to be good news, judging by the grin on Spain’s face.

“Okay, I’ll take the stage then! I didn’t mention this earlier, but I was actually hoping to catch you two while Romano was away.  He’s actually what I wanted to talk about.”

“Did he say something mean to you?  I’m sure he was joking, really!” Veneziano said.

“Ahaha, Romano is always a little rough with his words, and I know better than to take them seriously.  See there’s this thing.”  Spain scratched his head, suddenly bashful.  “There’s something I want to tell Romano, but I’m not sure how to go about it.  I guess I wanted some advice.”

“Huh?  But you know Romano as well as we do!”

“Do you think so?” Spain’s face lit up hopefully. “Well, I guess I do—if you say so! But for this, I felt like I needed to talk to someone else. Because, I don’t know, normally I don’t feel nervous when it comes to… uh, pursuing someone I like, but-”

“-someone you like? What do you mean ‘someone you like’?”

France didn’t realize his outburst had been aloud until Spain and Veneziano both turned to stare at him.  He began fiddling with his shirt collar.  “I-I don’t mean I see it as a shock, understanding your mutual history. I just assumed your affection toward our Italian friend was merely brotherly.”

“But… we’re nations, aren’t we France?” Spain’s voice grew low, teasing, “And I’m sure you’ve slept with half the people you once considered your brothers, haven’t you?”

France swallowed.  “I think the two of us have some experience with that,” he leered, leaning forward to flutter his lashes in mock seduction. But when he resumed his former posture his shoulders were visibly tensed.

“Do you mean Romano, too, Spain?” Veneziano piped up, “He would punch me if I asked, but he’s a nation I’m sure he’s got some experience already!”

“So I’ve heard…” Spain’s smile dimmed, only slightly, “But hey! That’s why I want to turn this into something different. I guess I want us to be…uh, partners.”

Veneziano clapped his hands and made a shrill, delighted squeal, while France began coughing over his water. “Sorry, I’m sorry,” he gasped out. Spain helpfully began pounding his back until his coughs subsided. “I am surprised, that is all. Commitment is uncommon but clearly not impossible, because—of course—we have Italy and Germany as an example. I just did not expect it from you.”

Spain shot him a puzzled look. “What do you mean? Do you think it won’t work?”

“No, I don’t mean that at all! I’m just saying that perhaps you shouldn’t expect that… I think that Romano-”

Veneziano cut in, “I think what France is trying to say is that maybe Romano will be harder to win over because of all the partners that he’s had.”

“All the partners?” Spain raised his brows and gave a weak laugh, “He really has grown up, hasn’t he?”

Veneziano nodded, hands idly spinning the fork before him, “Yeah, he’s a real catch now! You might be surprised with the lengths some people would take to get in bed with him.”

France nearly choked over his water a second time.  What was Veneziano doing?!  Christ, if Spain found out—

“What do you mean by that?”  Spain sat up straighter.

“Huh? Oh, nothing. There are a lot of people that try to hit on him when he’s drunk, but it’s all just for fun. Nothing too serious. And Romano is an adult, after all.”

“Romano does have the right to make his own adult decisions, but I won’t stand for anyone trying to take advantage of him,” Spain snapped. The edge to Spain’s voice made France’s heart beat faster.

Veneziano squeaked and ducked his head behind his hands. “Eeek! Spain, you’re being kind of scary!”

Spain blinked, the dark glare slowly replaced by his usual, brainless grin. “Ahaha, I’m sorry, Italy. I didn’t mean to scare you. I doubt I would have to resort to that, anyway. No one here would purposefully try to hurt Romano.”

“Yeah, that’s probably true!”

For a brief second, Veneziano’s eye caught his.  He looked away just as quickly, bouncing in his seat with renewed excitement.  “Well, how do you plan to go about with it?  Are you going to tell him soon?  Do you want to make it flashy?  I can make cute little posters to hold if you want help!”

Spain laughed.  “To be honest, I’m not sure.  That’s exactly why I called you both here.  Italy, because you’re his brother, and it seemed right to get your approval beforehand.  And France, because you’re one of my closest friends and, of course, a professional romancer.”  Spain winked.

France’s smile withered.

He had abandoned his former reputation in favor of being known as the sweet, romantic lover.  As much as he was teased otherwise, he did recognize a distinction between lovemaking and carnal urge.

If Spain spoke to Romano, it would be possible that Romano would disclose the events of _that night_ to him.

 _Merde_.  He would be _dead_.  Spain wouldn’t take it lightly.  Not to mention, it would create a huge scandal.

France drummed his fingers on the table, growing increasingly agitated.

Veneziano scrunched his face in thought.  “Well, Romano doesn’t like being in the center of a big scene.  It would be _so cute_ if you made the announcement while you’re presenting at the meeting, but I think Romano would pretend to be mad and run away.  He gets so embarrassed!  If you tell him somewhere private he’ll be more honest.”

“But what if he _honestly_ doesn’t like me like that?” Spain nearly wailed.

“Hmm.  What if I talk to him about it?  I won’t tell him everything you just said.  But I can try and find out what he thinks about it.”

“Oh, that sounds like a great idea!  Could you tell me what he says?”

“Okay!  I’ll bring it up to him tomorrow.  Romano’s been in a bad mood all day because of last night.  I want to cheer him up first!”

And Veneziano.  Despite his nonchalance, he continued to dangle the truth before Spain, almost taunting France with his ability to expose him.  France had been a fool to believe his act thus far.   _Of course_ Veneziano wasn’t ready to forgive him.  It was his _brother_ , after all, and France had been the one to hurt him.

Before Romano, France had to find a way to earn Veneziano’s forgiveness.  

He cleared his throat abruptly.  “Spain,” he said, grabbing his arm.  “Would you be a dear and buy me a pastry?  I don’t fancy the selection here, but I believe there was a coffee shop down the street.”

Anyone else might have found the request either unusual or disturbingly lazy, but Spain nodded and jumped up. “Sure, what kind do you want?”

“Any.”

Once he was out the door, France turned to Veneziano, taking hold of his shoulders more harshly than he intended.  “Veneziano, please!  You must understand!  I am beyond sorry for what I did to your brother—to Romano!  I genuinely have no idea what went through my mind that night!  So, p-please!  I know you must hate me right now, but Spain can’t find out about this!  He has always been protective of Romano, but now that he feels this way—he would try to murder me!”

Veneziano’s eyes widened.  “Huh?

“I understand if you cannot forgive me!  All I ask is that you don’t speak of this to Spain.  Please, I’ll do whatever it takes!”

Veneziano quirked his head to one side.  “France, do you think I’m mad at you right now?”

“Aren’t you?”  Shouldn’t he be?

“Ve… I do feel bad for Romano right now, but I don’t think you’re a bad person.  Romano drank too much, and so did you.”

“But...but what about Spain?  What if Romano brings it up to him?  How can I ask Romano to stay silent without feeling like a terrible person?”

Veneziano pried France’s fingers from his shoulder and squeezed them reassuringly.  “You’re not a terrible person.  I like you!  These things happen, right?  And if you’re worrying because you think Romano will tell on you, then there’s nothing wrong.  You see, Romano doesn’t even remember anything that happened.”

France gripped his fingers over Veneziano’s.  “Nothing?”

“Not a thing.”  Veneziano assured him.  “And I think it would be better for things to stay that way.  I don’t want him to feel worse.  He was already complaining about how sore he was.”  Veneziano’s lips pursed tight, pained.

“Oh.  Oh god, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.  He’s strong enough to get through physical pain.  Telling him the full story would hurt him more.  So I told him he fell down the hotel’s staircase to explain the bruises.”

God, this was so _wrong_.  Nevertheless, France felt immensely relieved.  He hated himself for it.  “Did he believe that?”

“Yup!  And of course, I don’t want to tell Spain either.  The amount of drama he’d create would make it harder for Romano to forget everything.  But you’ll have to make up your own story for why you left England.”

“I see…”  France exhaled.  It felt like the first real breath he’d taken since he confronted Veneziano.  He spotted a figure entering the café, carrying a small bag of pastries.  “It appears Spain has returned,” he said, and actually managed to crack a genuine smile.

The situation was hardly remedied, but France was content to trust Veneziano with the rest.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut at last! >:3 This is such a huge chapter and I apologize for that, but there wasn't an easy place where I could cut it off without posting one short chapter and one relatively long chapter.
> 
> Also special thanks to everyone who's commented thus far. I really appreciate all feedback :)
> 
>  
> 
> _Quick recap on what's happened, since it's been a while:_  
>  _Romano is in a bad mood at the meeting, after his Framano night which he has no memory of. Veneziano cheers him up by promising him that the two of them will have a quiet dinner together. France wants to speak to Vene about said Framano night, and Vene heartlessly cancels his plans with Romano for an impromptu coffee shop date with France and Spain._

* * *

 

Veneziano scurried through a stagnant crowd of tourists, bobbing his head over theirs in search of the hotel building.  He chose to forgo the cab ride with France and Spain in favor of public transportation.  After the amusing detour with France (listening to him plead for forgiveness had nearly caused Veneziano to burst into giggles), he needed to return to the hotel and mend things with Romano.  Involving the other two would only complicate things further.

After all, if Romano was _too_ upset, he wasn’t likely to follow through with Veneziano’s plans for the night.  And he had set everything up so nicely!  France had played his part well, but the thrill of the game had only left Veneziano even hungrier.

Veneziano singled out Romano before he spotted the hotel.  He sat sulking at a bench outside the hotel doors, his glare seeming to create a forcefield that repelled other tourists around him.  Veneziano hurried the last few steps and plopped himself in the vacant spot beside his brother.

“I’m so sorry, Romano!”

Romano didn’t turn to acknowledge him.  “Give me my damn key.”

“Huh?”

“What the _hell_ , Veneziano!  You ditched me to go hang out with fucking _France_ , and didn’t even give me my key or room number to get inside my own room!”

“Oh no, have you been waiting outside this whole time?”

“What does it look like, idiot?”

“I’m sorry!” Veneziano wailed again.

“Just give me my room key.”

“But what about our dinner together?  Look—” He gestured to the bags in his hands.  “I even remembered to stop by the market and pick up some pasta shells and sauce and some herbs and a pot and—”

“I don’t care anymore.”

“But Romano—!”

“Look, if you can cancel your plans anytime you want, then so can I.  I just want to take a bath, change into some clothes that don’t smell like shit, and go to bed.”

“O-Okay.”  Veneziano sniffled, and as if on cue, a tear slipped down his cheek.  He took his time rummaging through his pockets, carefully muffling a soft sob.  “I guess that’s fair.  I just… It’s hard to not… To try and make sure no one gets sad.  Because I didn’t want to say no to France, and…” he dragged the keys out from his pocket “...and I thought it’d be a quick talk and I’d be able to meet up with you in a few minutes, but…”

“What?  Are you crying now?”

“N-No.  I hurt your feelings, Romano, and I feel so terrible.”

“Dammit.”  Romano sighed.  “Come on, I’ll get over it by tomorrow.  I just need to freshen up and actually get a night of sleep on my own bed.”

“But I broke my promise... and...and I’ll be thinking about how hungry you’ll be all night.”

“I’ll order room service.  No big deal.”

“I...I guess I can’t change your mind.”  Veneziano let out a soft sob.  He held the key out to Romano, averting his face as he did.

Romano pocketed the key, but didn’t make any movement to leave.  He remained silent.  Veneziano let out another sniffle for good measure.

“Goddammit, Vene,” Romano groaned.  “Okay, fine.  How about this?  I’ll let you tag along to my room, and after I freshen up we can get started on the pasta?”

“Really?”  Veneziano jerked his head up, allowing Romano a clear view of his tear-rimmed eyes.

“Yeah, sure.  Whatever.”

“Ahh, Romano!  You’re the best!”  Veneziano flung his arms around his brother, locking him in a tight embrace.  “But can we go to my room instead.   _Please_.”

“What?  No, that wasn’t part of the deal!  Besides, how does it make a difference?”

“Well…  It’ll be…  It’ll be faster!  Yeah!  You haven’t had time to unpack everything.  If you come to my room you can just borrow a set of my clothes, and I’ll have dinner ready by the time you finish your bath!”

Romano snorted.  “I thought the point was for us to cook together.”

“I don’t want you to lift a finger.  I came back late, and I need to make it up to you!  And you should fill your belly and feel comfortable before getting everything sorted out in your room.”

“Ugh, fine”  Romano flung his arms up in exasperation, though the flush in his cheeks made it clear he was actually flattered with the attention.  “You win!  I’m too tired to argue about this!”

It wasn’t surprising.  After all, Romano could have only been this upset because he had been looking forward to their evening plans.  Despite his explanation, Veneziano knew his brother had rejected him due to hurt feelings and spite.

Veneziano eased away from the embrace, giving Romano one last pat on the back.  “Oh!  I should probably give you your room number.”  He fished out a sheet of paper and a pen from his satchel, and scribbled down a set of numbers.  “Here!  This is the room Germany told me you were assigned!”

“Great.  I’m heading back as soon as we’re done eating.  Don’t you dare try and drag me into wasting more time with you.”

“Aw, we can’t even watch TV together?”

“Like I want to watch whatever shitty German channels this hotel offers,” Romano scoffed, pulling himself to his feet.  “Now let’s hurry up and get this over with.”

Veneziano skipped beside him, linking his arm with Romano’s before it was pulled away.  That was alright.  He needed to leave Romano feeling a sense of control.

* *

The two were soon inside Veneziano’s room, the door locked behind them.  Veneziano bustled to the tiny kitchen with his groceries, pausing to smile at his brother.  “I’ll take care of all the cooking.  You can go ahead and take your bath.  And feel free to borrow any of my clothes.  They’re in my suitcase.”

Romano shrugged and headed to the suitcase.  He didn’t appear any less annoyed, but Veneziano was relieved that he didn’t seem to be reconsidering his change of mind.  Romano could be fickle and impulsive, but he wasn’t intentionally mean.  A few tears had moved him more quickly than Veneziano had anticipated.

It was almost endearingly pathetic, but Veneziano’s timing had been thrown off.

He set the pot of water on the stove, because even if dinner was earlier than he had planned, he still wanted the food to be set at the table before Romano finished his bath.  He hummed as he cooked, glancing up briefly at his brother entered the bathroom.

Rumpled clothes, greasy hair, and a slight limp.  Romano wouldn’t be caught dead looking so pitiful outside of the battlefield.  Veneziano wondered if he should feel bad.  His brother really did look like he could use some sleep.

Oh well.

Veneziano stirred the pot of sauce absentmindedly.  It was store-bought, but he was a decent cook.  He tossed in a few chopped up tomatoes, cheese, and herbs, stirring intermittently.  The sauce was about ready, but there was one last ingredient, a special, grinded mixture.  Veneziano had bought it just for Romano.  He needed it most.  It would have to wait until the pasta was divvied onto separate plates.

Veneziano glanced again at the bathroom door.  There wasn’t any sound from inside.  No footsteps or splashing water to warn him that Romano would step out soon.  Veneziano tiptoed forward, then pressed his ear against the door.  Silence, except for soft, even breaths.

He turned to check the clock.  Almost seven.  Veneziano returned to the kitchen, quicker now.  He drew out to plates and served them both.  Rigatoni.  Sauce.  Some grated cheese.  He drew out the small container from his pocket and sprinkled its contents over one plate.  Veneziano pursed his lips.  Would it be enough?  Romano might need an extra kick for encouragement.  He dumped out a good tablespoon or three, then stirred it into the sauce.

His giggles had to be muffled behind his hand.  Luck was clearly on his side.  The game wasn’t nearly as challenging as Veneziano would have preferred, but he didn’t think he would tire of victory anytime soon.

* * *

Romano groaned.

Something was jabbing at his shoulder, and it was pushing him out from his thick, sleepy haze.

“Go ‘way, bastard…” he mumbled.

“Romano!” the voice said, more urgently.  The poking was incessant, and that annoying voice kept repeating something along the lines of “cold pasta”.

Romano attempted to turn over and pull his pillow over his head, but his arm slipped through the mattress.

_Splash!_

Romano jolted upright.

“You fell asleep in the tub!” Veneziano already began to explain.  “You looked so peaceful so I didn’t want to wake you, but the pasta’s ready and if we wait any longer it’s going to get cold!”

His surroundings grew clearer as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.  The sink and toilet on the other side of the room, Veneziano anxiously shifting in place beside him, the lukewarm water he was submerged in, and…

Romano screeched, pulling his arms over his bare chest.  “What the _hell_ , Veneziano?  How the fuck did you get inside?”

He wasn’t particularly shy about nudity.  He and his brother had spent many nights sharing a bed in their underwear, and it wasn’t unusual for Veneziano to cuddle right up to him in his sleep.

But something about Veneziano's demeanor felt a bit off.

His movements were fidgety.  Not quite guilty, although he did seem apologetic for waking Romano.  It was stranger that Veneziano seemed to be trying to _restrain_ his impatience.  When pasta was on the line, Veneziano usually wasn’t above bursting into tears.

“Veee…”  Veneziano flailed his arms.  “I unlocked the door with my room key!  You were taking so long and I was worried you maybe hit your head on the pipe and drowned!”

“Then I’d wake up in a few hours, just as annoyed as I am now.  Get out of here!  And hand me a towel, dammit!”

Veneziano reached over to fetch the towel.  “Here you go!  I’ll be waiting with the pasta at the table!”

Romano waited until the door was closed, and then pulled himself out of the tub with a huff.  Veneziano was up to something, that was for sure.  He hoped it wasn’t another goddamn surprise party.  His brother lacked insight and didn’t seem to realize the things that helped him feel better didn’t always work for Romano.

Romano was exhausted.  He had complied with his brother’s wishes, but he had his limits.  Right then he just wanted to eat something and jump straight into bed.

In his own room, of course.  He refused to flatter Veneziano with the absurd idea he enjoyed his company enough to share his bed another night.

His stomach groaned in agreement.

Romano pulled on a spare pair of Veneziano’s pajamas and peeked around the door suspiciously.

Quiet, other than the buzz of the television.  No creepy whispers from behind couches, extra pairs of shoes by the door, or anything else to indicate Veneziano had invited a bunch of his friends over for dinner.  There were only two plates of pasta waiting at the dining table.

Thank god.

Veneziano switched off the TV and pranced toward him before he had a chance to leave the bathroom.  “Romano!  I didn’t want to start eating without you, but I’m scared the pasta’s gone cold already!”

Romano rolled his eyes.  “Just microwave it.  It’s going to taste like shit either way.”

“But then the cheese will get crusty!”

“Whatever.  Let’s just eat the food so I can get out of here.”

“Okay!’  Veneziano darted to a chair and took his seat.  He nodded expectantly at the opposite one.

Romano sighed.  His brother was too damn cheerful.

The food smelled appetizing enough, though it was because he was _fucking starving._ Hell, at this point he’d probably even accept a wurst if Germany offered him one.

He took a tentative first bite.

Romano swore he had class, but he had devoured half his plate by the time Veneziano had taken his third bite.

He hadn’t realized just how hungry he’d been.  The food in his stomach spread a warm, comfortable haze over him.  He leaned back in his chair, feeling satisfied enough to offer his brother a smile—or at least, a quirk of the lips.

“It’s pretty alright.”

“Ah, I’m so glad you like it!” Veneziano chirped.

He looked so pleased with himself, even if all he had done was boil some water and tamper a bit with storebought sauce.

Damn, his brother was pretty damn cute.

“What did you add to the sauce?”

“More tomatoes, of course, since you love them!  And some cheese, aaand...a few other things.”

Romano’s eyes stayed focused on Veneziano as he resumed eating.  His little brother, huh?  Some people had the audacity to assume they were twins, but further inspection would prove that Veneziano was slightly taller, graced with softer features and a leaner build.

He’d always been the more attractive one, hadn’t he?

Veneziano’s slender fingers handled the fork like a paintbrush.  He had this poise, even when eating.  He managed to make it an art.  His skin was fairer, allowing a pinkish blush to set upon his cheeks.  Not the ferocious rouge Romano sported.

And his lips, they had a rosy tint.  They looked very soft, almost girlish.  Romano wondered what they’d feel like if he—

“Romano,” Veneziano suddenly said, “What’re you looking at?  Is there something on my face?”

Romano shoved himself back down onto his seat, unaware that he had been leaning forward.  “Wh-What?  No!”

As he gained lucidity, he became aware of just how hot it felt in the room, and just how tight the seam of his pants was becoming.

Oh.  Oh _shit_.

Veneziano was tapping his face with his napkin.  (“Is it on my cheek?  Is it gone now?”)

Romano quickly averted his eyes.  Fuck, he couldn’t look Veneziano in the face.  This was his baby brother, for fuck’s sake!  How was he going to explain why he reacted like _that?_

And holy fucking shit, the throbbing in his groin refused to see it was unwanted and just go the hell away.

“Romano!” Veneziano persisted.  “Romano, what’s wrong?  Was one of the shells uncooked?  Oh no, I’m so sorry!”

“No!”  Romano gripped the table, attempting to stifle a groan.  “No, j-just—just give me a second, idiot!”

“Are you alright?  Romano?”  Veneziano hesitantly pulled himself up from his chair and took a step in his direction, but that was the last thing he wanted…  If Veneziano saw him like that...fuck, _mortified_ wouldn’t even begin to describe it.  Romano would never be able to face him again.

“Shut up!  Can you just sit down!” he barked.  Seeing the stunned look on Veneziano’s face made him reconsider his tone.  “Ugh!  I-Sorry!  Fuck!  Just wait here, _please_!  I got something to do...in my room.  I’ll be back in a second.”

“O-Okay?” Veneziano quirked his head, but thankfully didn’t attempt to move from his chair.

Romano shot up, careful to spin around before his brother could notice the bulge in his pants, and shuffled out the door as calmly as he could manage.  The simple act of walking was near impossible when each step caused the fabric of his pants to brush _there_ , and he nearly doubled over, close to exploding.

Once he was out the door, he bolted down the hallway.  He fumbled through his pockets for the key Veneziano had given him and the scribbled note that contained the room number.

  1.  That had to be the same floor, but unfortunately past the elevator and near the end of the opposite hall.  



He didn’t run into anyone he knew— _thankfully_ —but a mother passing by with her son shot him a bewildered look.

Romano spotted his room number and slammed through the door, which was slightly ajar (That wasn’t right, was it?), and flung his keys at the dresser, at the very least relieved he didn’t have to waste another few seconds trying to unlock the room.  He gave the door a swift kick behind him, threw himself onto the bed, and then struggled to wrangle his pants down his thighs.

By this point, his cock was actually throbbing.  Romano grasped it firmly and proceeded with rough, careless strokes, anything to ease his desperation.  He bit down on the thin bed sheets, struggling to gain control of his senses.  But it didn’t work.  Each stroke made it harder and harder to control his moans.

A soft gasp escaped him, and then a low whine, and then he was oblivious to the noise he was making.  HIs eyes had fallen shut somewhere in between, and he furiously persisted in trying to quell that urge that only seemed to expand in size.

“Well.”

It took him a second to register the intruding presence, but once he did, Romano bolted upright in bed, eyes wide.

A tall figure blocked the doorway, his appearance concealed by the darkness of the room.  Romano blinked a few times to adjust his eyes, partially convinced he was hallucinating, until the features became clearer.

Tan skin, stubbled face, and a faint smirk on his face despite the fact he was mirroring Romano’s started expression.

“Wh-What the fuck are you doing in my room?  Get out!”  He grabbed the closest item at hand—a box of tissues—and flung them at his intruder, missing entirely.

“Shouldn’t that be my question?” Turkey said, raising an eyebrow.  His hand hesitated at the doorknob before he took a cautious step inside, and then shut the door behind him.  “You’re aware this is _my_ room, right?”

“What the—No!  Veneziano—Veneziano gave me the keys, and I—”

“C’mon, I leave the room for an hour and come back to see _this_?”  Turkey’s eyes scoured his partially nude form.  Romano scrambled to pull the bed sheets over his exposed form.  “I mean, I might’ve left the open, but that wasn’t an open invitation for you to come in and play with yourself.  On _my_ bed.  Unless this is your way of flirting with me?”

Turkey chuckled at his own joke, and Romano felt his cheeks burn even hotter.  No, that wasn’t right.  The room number—where was the fucking paper Veneziano had given him?  He couldn’t think clearly, and his cock pulsated in reminder of a more pressing issue.

“Just—Just give me a minute, dammit!  We’ll figure this out later!”  And god, Romano was going to kill himself for this later, but his hand slipped back down under the sheets, seemingly out of his control, and he couldn’t stop.

Turkey actually took a step back.  “What the hell…”

“Get out already!”

“You’re being damn rude, kid.”  And then Turkey’s eyebrows seemed to shoot up in realization, and no—whatever he was thinking, that wasn’t it!—and strided forward.  “Tough to figure out, aren’t you?  A century goes by with you dancing outta my grasp.  Then you crawl into my bed to claim you’re not interested.  Fuckin’ tease.”

Romano had forgotten just how much Turkey _towered_ over him, and his fear of the man in his childhood (had he ever completely vanquished it?) seemed to be more justified.  He was powerless, and _oh god_ , it was thrilling!

No!  Romano shook his head.  That—that wasn’t right!  These thoughts didn’t seem to be his own.  Something was wrong—something he couldn’t explain.

“I—I—” he stuttered, but he couldn’t quite muster a ‘No!’ as Turkey ripped the bed sheets off him.  The cold air hit him, and he shivered with excitement.

“Not as shy as I thought you’d be,” Turkey snorted, and to his horror, Romano realized his hand hadn’t stopped— _couldn’t_ stop—stroking its way down his hardened and beading cock.

“I—I just need—”

“Yeah?” Turkey leaned forward, his hand resting centimeters from Romano’s shoulder.  Romano could feel the heat from Turkey’s hand, could see the tendons flexing in his arm as he readjusted, and shit, he needed to those hands to touch him.

His hips bucked up on their own accord, and he mouthed the words, pleading.

Seeming to read his mind, Turkey’s hand slipped down the bed and over his thigh.  He gave it a firm squeeze.

Oh, _fuck_!  Romano couldn’t clamp his lips shut after that.  The intensity of another person’s touch, it was nothing like using his own hand.  A moan tore from his mouth, and then another, as Turkey massaged and squeezed his inner thighs, teasing.

“Touch me _there_!” he barked.

That earned him a chuckle from Turkey.  “I see you’re still as bratty as ever.”

Romano didn’t have time to take offence, because Turkey slid his hand over his cock, and _shit_ , the fire bubbling below his stomach turned into electricity.  His skin prickled all over, his legs shook, and he had to shove his head into a pillow to keep from screaming.  Unlike his own hand, Turkey’s lazy strokes were dragging him further away from reality.  He was rushing forward, faster than he could have anticipated.

He exploded over Turkey’s hands with a muffled cry and a whimper.

“Damn, looks like ya needed that,” Turkey said, raising an eyebrow.

Romano had a second of relief, a brief moment of clarity— _What the hell was he doing?  He had to leave!_ —before his mind was clouded over with the familiar confusion and desperation.  He sat up and glanced at Turkey, who was unbuckling his own pants.

It was too warm.  Romano tugged himself free of his shirt, already damp with sweat.  Rather than relief, his orgasm seemed to drive him to an even more insatiable edge.  His skin was prickling hotter, his cock throbbed, and his mind was exhausted.  It was harder to think rationally about the situation, harder to _want_ to think rationally about the situation.

“What’s up with you today?  I didn’t think ya’d be this eager, to be honest.”  Turkey said.

“Shut up.”  Romano didn’t know if he was speaking to Turkey or the voice screaming in the back of his mind.

Turkey snorted.  “Less talk more action?  What do you want me to do to you?”

Romano pulled himself up to his shaking knees as Turkey stepped forward.  Even with the bed’s height, kneeling, his head only reached Turkey’s chest.

He peered up at Turkey and smirked.  Taunting the beast, it seemed.  His heart fluttered.  “Whatever you want.”

“You’re okay with me screwing you tonight?”

Romano swallowed.  For some reason his throat seemed to choke up around the “yes”, so he answered by grabbing Turkey by the neck and kissing him roughly, biting at his lower lip.

Turkey moaned with him.  One of his arms crept around Romano’s back and squeezed his ass.  Then suddenly Turkey’s hands were around his thighs, and he was hoisted into the air, and he had no choice but to clutch at Turkey’s shoulders and wrap his legs around his waist.

Turkey pushed him into the wall.  “How rough do you like it?” he whispered breathily into his ear.

“Nghh…”  Romano frowned at the interruption.  “Make me,” he hissed before attacking Turkey’s neck with bites and kisses.

“Make you?” Turkey laughed.  “What’s that supposed to mean?  You want to fight back?”

Turkey sighed as Romano suckled at a sensitive point between his neck and collarbone.

“Fine, we’ll play rough.”

Romano felt the air shoot out of his lungs before he could register being thrown onto the bed.  Before he could sit up Turkey was over him, and all he could do was curse and bat out blindly before strong hands took hold and flipped him onto his stomach.  Turkey pulled him up by the legs, pushing his groin against his ass.

“Like this?” he asked, and bucked his hips against Romano’s mockingly.

Romano could feel Turkey’s cock against his entrance, hard.  His legs twitched, almost crumpled beneath him.  

“Yes!  Whatever!  Quit asking so many questions.  Just _do_ it already!”

“Easy there.  I don’t want to actually hurt ya’.”  Turkey withdrew a hand.  Romano heard the subtle pop of his lips, and when the hand returned to his ass it was wet.  “How much prepping do you need?  I don’t have any lube with me.”

Romano’s hips bucked forward Turkey’s finger ghosted around his entrance.  “I don’t fucking care!  I’ll deal with it later.  Just hurry— _please_!”

He was already close to exploding, again, but he couldn’t quite reach it.  Not yet.  He angled one hand down, because if Turkey wasn’t going to help him, he was going to at least try and get the job done himself.

He gasped as he wrapped his fingers around his sensitive cock.  It was almost painful, and yet he couldn’t stop rubbing.

Behind him, he felt Turkey’s first finger push inside of him.  He nearly sobbed in anticipation.

“Hmm.”  Turkey hummed.  “You’re opening up real easy.”

He added a second digit.  He paused for a second, and Romano could feel his eyes burning intensely into the back of his head, but he didn’t care.  When Turkey began rubbing, scissoring, he lost all awareness.

Romano cried out, moaned, begged.  His left arm couldn’t support his weight, and he and his dignity collapsed onto the bed, ass still perked up in the air, needing more.  Turkey might have added another finger, he couldn’t tell.  He only felt hotter and hotter until his head felt woozy and his vision blurred, and the only strength he could expend was used in his arm, pumping his cock until he was empty and his arm was too weak to continue.

A wet pool collected between his thighs.  He dropped his head against the mattress, panting.  It was a little cooler, a little easier to think, and his cheeks burned not only from the heat, but also a vague sense of embarrassment.  

It was brief, and he wasn’t quite as disconcerted as the first time when his skin began to prickle and he felt that insatiable urge below his waist.

“You okay?” Turkey asked, and Romano realized he had been wheezing for breath.

“Yeah,” Romano gasped.

“Good.  You’ve had your turn, it’d be rude to leave me rock hard after all I’ve done for you.”

Romano snorted.  “Then take your turn, bastard.  I gave you permission a while ago, unless you’re afraid you can’t perform.”

He vaguely heard his own slurred voice as if it were someone else speaking, but Turkey didn’t seem to notice.  

“You definitely sound spirited enough to keep going.”  He heard Turkey spit over his fingers, then the fingers were pressing against his ass, hastier and clumsy.

Romano whined.

“Mmm, you’re still stretched out.  You want more, don’t you?”

This time Turkey didn’t wait or seem to care for a response.  His cock head was pressing hard against Romano’s entrance, and then—

“F-Fuck!” Romano hissed as Turkey slipped into him.

The motion itself was careless and unpositioned, but just the thought of what was to come made his knees quiver.  Romano could feel Turkey’s cock hot inside of him, the tightness of his muscles around it.  There was another experimental thrust that caused him to whimper.

Turkey was frustratingly both rough and slow, and by the time he began moving at a steady pace Romano was burning with need.  He reached down to touch himself, but Turkey immediately batted his hand away.

“What the _hell_?”

“Oh, come on.  You’ve already finished twice tonight.  Some patience would do you good.”

“Fuck you!”

Turkey caught his wrist before Romano could return attention to his cock, and pulled it back behind him.  “You gave me permission to do what I want, didn’t you?”

“Not like—!  Not anymore, _fuck you_!”

Turkey laughed.  “Don’t worry.  I’ll take care of ya’.”

He angled his hips a bit differently with his next thrust.  Romano let out a sharp gasp.  It was— _shit_!  He wouldn’t have to touch himself at this rate.

“Tell me where it feels good,” Turkey whispered.

“L-Lower!”  Romano choked out.  “ _Fuck_!”

“There?”  Turkey smirked.  “I’ll finish you off after I’m done.  I deserve a turn, don’t I?”

Romano didn’t get a chance to respond, because Turkey gripped him tight at his hips, and then he was wild.  He slammed into Romano harder, deeper, eliciting a louder cry with every thrust.  It wasn’t enough.  He clawed his fingers into the sheets, clutching them like a lifesaver.

Turkey was fucking him raw, and he was helpless, his right wrist bruised in Turkey’s inescapable hold.  He wanted release, but relinquishing all power and control, it felt so natural, so terrifying, so _arousing_.

“Oh, fuck…    _Fuck_ , Romano!” Turkey groaned.  “Fuck, I’m gettin’ close.  Say my name.”

“Nghh…”  Romano shook his head.  He needed to be _made_ powerless.  He needed to feel more vulnerable and desperate than he ever had before.  He had no control and he needed someone else to take it.

Turkey grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head back.  Romano nearly screamed.  That fucking strand, the heat from Turkey’s hand, the slight pain mixed with arousal.

“Rub it!  Rub it, please!”

“Say it, Romano.  You know what to do.”

“ _Ahh_ —Turkey!  Turkey, please!  I can’t wait anymore!”

Romano gritted his teeth and scrunched his eyes shut.  He was being knocked back and forth, Turkey’s hands dragging him back every time he fell too far forward.  And Turkey’s cock was so deep inside of him, thrusting too erratically for him to decipher whether it was pain or pleasure he was crying out to, and then Turkey groaned, guttural.

He felt warmth spread out inside of him, a different kind of warmth.

Turkey didn’t stop.  His thrusts grew slower and shallower, even one brushing closer, harder, at _that spot_.  Romano bucked his hips back to meet Turkey’s, trying to get more, always more, even though he was sore and aching and too weak to even hold himself up.

His cock throbbed with urgency, but he couldn’t reach down—Turkey still wouldn’t release his arm.  He would finish when Turkey let him.

“Faster, Turkey— _please_!”

Turkey’s fingers slipped through his hair.  “I didn’t think I’d see you this obedient,” he smirked.  “How about one more please?”

Romano choked down the next sob.  “ _Please_ , please, I need it now!”

Turkey found that special curl, and he rubbed his thumb up the curl experimentally.

Romano nearly screamed.  “F-Faster!”

He heard Turkey laugh behind him, but all that mattered was that Turkey complied.  He bucked his hips faster, aiming directly for his prostate, and it wasn’t going to take long now.  Romano didn’t even register his own screams.  He was whirling, out of control, and only Turkey’s touch at his hip, around that curl, _inside_ of him was keeping him grounded.

His hips jerked forward as he came, and Turkey kept fucking him until his cock had bled out and he was empty.  Completely spent.

Romano fell forward into the bed, head spinning, heart pounding.  The colors of the bed sheets swirled into a grayish mess, then began to blur.

Reality hit, and this time, it stuck with him.

 _Shit_.

What the _fuck_ just happened?

What was _wrong_ with him?

Turkey collapsed on the bed beside him, laughing breathily.  “We should do this again sometime.  How was it for you?”  One of his arms snaked under Romano’s shoulders, pulling him closer.

His touch was suddenly too warm against Romano’s skin, almost repulsive.  Romano felt the urge to pull away, but he couldn’t muster the energy to move or speak.  He was powerless.

It was no longer thrilling.  All he felt was an ache at the back of his throat as his vision blurred.

“Not gonna say anything?  If I knew a good fuck would shut you up, I would’ve done it much sooner.” Turkey chuckled.

Romano stared ahead, focusing intensely at a spot in the ceiling, even when his vision completely clouded over and a fat tear rolled down the side of his cheek and off his face.  He couldn’t hold back the muffled sob.

Turkey instantly sat up.  “Whoa, are you...crying?  I was just joking about the shutting you up thing.  I didn’t think you’d be this sensitive.”

The conflicting thoughts that had lain dormant for so long were suddenly swirling around his head too rapidly for Romano to consciously make sense of _what_ was so wrong, and Turkey was so fucking _unaware_ that Romano felt an uncontrollable, seething hatred towards him.

Romano wanted to scream.  He wanted to pound that bewildered expression off Turkey’s face.  But what he did was bury his head into the pillow and sob.

“Holy shit,” Turkey murmured.  “I…  I’m not really sure how to deal with this right now.  What do you want me to do?”

“Please...just leave my room.”

Turkey paused.  “Well, this isn’t going to make you happy, but I’ve said this before.  This is my room.  That’s my suitcase over there.”

Romano scrunched his eyes shut and shook his head.  The tears managed to burst forth from under his lashes and roll down his face.  “No.  This is the room number… Veneziano told me—”  He choked up.  He didn’t even know what to believe anymore.

“Don’t worry about it.  I’m sure it’ll get sorted out.”  Turkey laid a hand on his shoulder.

Instantly, Romano’s mind was flooded with the sensations of Turkey’s arms shoving him against the wall, throwing him onto the bed, pinning his arms in place.

And his own pathetic behavior.  Romano had allowed Turkey to see him act like such a whimpering and desperate mess when there was someone else he—

“I hate you!” Romano snapped.  “You’re the fucking worst!  You don’t even know what’s wrong!”

“...Did I hurt you?”

Romano hated Turkey all the more for his concern.  “You’re a fucking idiot!”

“If that’s not it, then what is it?  Can you just tell me what’s wrong?”  Turkey asked, his voice was growing irritated.

How dare he.  How dare _he_ be the angry one after what he’d done to him.

Though a tiny part of Romano refused to admit lashing out at Turkey because he barely knew how to explain to himself what was wrong.

“You bastard!  Are you stupid?  I didn’t even want to do this!  I hate you!”

Turkey grabbed him by the shoulder, pulling him around to face him despite his weak punches and protests.  His eyes narrowed.  “Are you kidding me?  You agreed to it.  You urged me on.  You explicitly said to do whatever I wanted to you.”

Romano shook his head furiously.  “This was supposed to be my own private room!  You completely misinterpreted everything!  You pushed this on me!”

“Then why didn’t you stop me?  Why did you...keep fucking touching yourself?  What was I supposed to think?

“I just couldn’t—” Romano broke off, because how could he explain that urge, the burning inside of him, the lack of judgement, the throbbing of his genitals.  It sounded absurd.  “I didn’t even look happy!”

“You’ve gotta be joking.  You’ve _really_ gotta be joking,” Turkey laughed, empty.  “Have you seen your damn face?  You always look pissed!  And now you’re gonna blame me for not being able to read your complicated mind?”

Turkey was right.  Romano couldn’t even decipher his own complicated mind.  He tugged himself free from Turkey’s grip, averting his eyes, and pulled himself off the bed.

His legs felt heavy.  His body was sore, tired, and defeated.  

“Hey!” Turkey persisted, “What the hell did you mean by ‘you didn’t want this’.  Did you just change your mind after?  What’s your problem?”

Choosing to ignore the question, Romano snatched his strewn clothes off the floor and started throwing them back on.

“Are you trying to make me out as some type of asshole who—”

“Just stop!  I get it, I fucking get it!  I’ll shut up about it, okay?  It’s not your fault!” Romano snapped, voice cracking.

Turkey immediately faltered, clearly not expecting surrender.  Almost looking ashamed, he took a deep breath.  “You wanna just forget this happened?”

“Yeah.  I’ll shut up about it, don’t worry about anyone finding out about this.”

It might have been a trick of the eye, but Turkey seemed to flinch.  “Shit, that’s not what I meant.  I’m sorry if you’re upset about this.  I don’t really know what happened with the room mixup, but...”

“I fucking admitted it’s my fault, so shut up.  I’m going to go.”

“Hey, hold on-!”

Romano darted to the door before Turkey could get off the bed, and in a second he had it slammed behind him as he tore down the hallway.  Running away again.  It was starting to become a habit.

First his brother, now Turkey.  Romano wondered if Veneziano was still waiting for him.  Whether he was upset about Romano’s disappearance.  Whether he even cared.

Would it have been less painful if one of them had actually made some effort to chase after him, despite his claims of wanting to be left alone?  Maybe he was just blaming people who had no idea how to deal with someone as tiresome as himself.  Turkey wasn’t even his friend, after all.  Why couldn’t Romano stop pointing fingers at people when they couldn’t fix the things _he_ fucked up?

More likely, he was overreacting.  This shouldn’t be bothering him so much.  Like most nations, Romano was guilty of having the occasional one night stand, and those that ended in disaster.  This was just another one.  Something he would forget, eventually.

But Romano couldn’t shake away the chilling feeling that there was still something disturbingly _wrong_. He felt like a marionette in some twisted puppet show, swinging erratically without direction or awareness.  Powerless over his own body.

He didn’t dare return to Veneziano’s room now.  Unsure of where to go, Romano decided on the door to the stairway.  He stumbled his way down two flights of stairs.  Somewhere on the second or first floor, he finally slumped against the wall and dropped his head into his hands, but his shaking legs eventually gave way.  He collapsed to the ground and curled into himself, taking sharp gasps of breath.

He was so absorbed in his self-pitying thoughts that he didn’t realize he wasn’t alone, didn’t hear the footsteps moving steadily toward him, not until their owner cleared his throat.

“…Romano?”

The voice, deep and controlled as always, grated through his thoughts and shredded them into a vague perception of self-pity.

Romano stared down.  Today just wasn’t his day, was it.

Those over-polished boots shined tauntingly across from him, reflecting a blurred image of his own face – a pathetic mess of tears and snot.

He pretended his voice didn’t crack when he spoke, “S-So…  The fuck do you want?”

Pretty fucking pitiful, he couldn’t even bring himself to add the ‘potato bastard’ afterward.


End file.
